


whose woods these are (I think I know)

by ACometAppears



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Artist Steve, Canon-Typical Human Experimentation, Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, Doctor Bruce, Fingering, Finished, Frottage, Gen, Hand Job, Inspired by The Witcher, M/M, Magic and Spells, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Nonbinary Bucky Barnes, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Split timelines - chapters alternate between past and present, Swordfighting, Witch Natasha, Witcher AU, Witcher Bucky, alcohol use, bucky doesn't like eating in front of people, canon-typical abuse, colonial violence - fictional, discussion of drug use, mentions of abuse, mentions of torture, monster hunting, monster-inflicted injuries, reader can decide about almost every character's gender identity as they please, sex scenes are trans friendly please project to your little heart's content, sexual content in chapters 16 and epilogue, some childhood trauma/cruelty to children but no child death or abuse or anything like that, this can be seen as disordered eating so please take heed, trans author, witcher Sam, witchers eat raw meat and you'll see it in this fic fair warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 89,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25130704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/pseuds/ACometAppears
Summary: Summary: Bucky is a witcher with a terrible past. Steve is an artist looking for answers about his. Both have things that they can't remember, or won't confront. But destiny loves to mess with a witcher - and, it turns out, the ones they love.Captain America 'The Witcher' AU, told alternately through entries from the present, and the past.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 151
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poe/gifts).



_Present_

Steve has met witchers before.

He’s been helped by one, and ignored by others; he’s seen them stride about this city, if it can even be called that anymore, crushing the dirt under their boots and drawing hushed whispers and cries for help alike.

This place isn’t truly a city, anymore. Ever since the Empire started sending their colonial armies - the _Bitter March_ \- across the border, people started to flee, in greater and greater numbers. Travelling merchants have stopped coming around, farmers’ fields are yielding fewer crops, and Steve hasn’t seen a single witcher come around in over a year, probably. There’s no money, here, for them - but plenty of contracts. War means casualties, and casualties mean new spirits, ghouls, and monsters that feast on the dead.

But witchers have a code: they are always paid for their work, one way or another. Those who cannot pay, they won't serve. Steve understands that rule, obviously - it's just that he could never imagine abiding by it, in the knowledge that people need help, and are suffering . . . Even if appreciative words don't put food on the table. He knows that much, from his career in art.

There have been tales, also, of witchers amongst the ranks of the Bitter March. Witchers, hunting _people_ , on behalf of the King. The thought makes Steve shiver, whenever he considers it.

But when he next sees a witcher, he’s . . . _Different_ , to the others he’s met. Almost none of them would do what he does.

Steve’s fighting, again. He’s not a fighter by trade, and he’s not good at it, at all. He’s an artist: his hands worn from sketching, painting, carving, and the like, rather than fist-fights. And yet, here he is, again.

Perhaps if this guy hadn’t talked shit in support of the Empire across the border – responsible for the death and displacement of possibly thousands of people – he wouldn’t be in this situation. But when he hears him talk about how the Bitter March is doing the world a favour, by ridding it of the poor townsfolk and witches along the border . . . Well. He’s ready to take a beating, to stand against that.

He’s about five seconds from getting his nose broken, again, and he’s made his peace with that. He’s fought dirty, in a way that his father probably wouldn’t be proud of, if he was still around. But it gets results. The man in front of him is bleeding from a cut below his eye, but it’s not enough to make him back down, or get him to stop. So be it.

He readies himself for another round; he holds his fists up, and prepares for them to be brushed aside like dust on the wind, and the sickening crunch of pain, blooming from his face.

The pain never comes. Instead there’s a guttural grunt, loud then muted, and a growl, deep and almost feral:  
“Pick on someone your own size,”

Steve opens his eyes, confused that this situation isn’t following the usual script, when he gets into these scraps. His antagonist - the man who’d taken it upon himself to talk loudly with his companions about how the men, women and _children_ at the border deserved their fates simply for trying to protect their ancestral lands - is gone. All that’s left of him is the sound of distant running footsteps; his blood on the floor, rather than Steve’s.

That’s new.

In his place, there is someone new: someone who he thinks is old, for a moment, glimpsing only long, shining silvery-white hair. But he’s not old, really: he’s surprisingly young, actually. He’s dressed in leather armour, well-kept, like he’s earned the wage to be able to maintain it. He’s holding himself like he’s the scariest thing in this now-wretched city, and maybe he is.

He turns to Steve, every movement controlled like there’s not a muscle wasted, not a drop of energy expended in error. Steve takes in his dark armour, his thousands of brown freckles, his pale skin, and his yellow-gold eyes. He knows just what he is.

“I – you,” Steve says, sounding silly to himself, in that moment. He can’t find the words to say, just wanting to thank him, but unable to as he marvels at his sudden appearance.

The man stays silent, gaze almost – but not quite – neutral.

“. . . There’s been news – of witchers. From across the border,” Steve says. The man tenses, slightly, regarding Steve with suspicion. “You’re not – one of them, are you?”

He doesn’t answer.

“You don’t report to the King?” Steve asks again.  
“No,” The witcher says, voice rusty from obvious disuse. “Don’t kill humans,”  
“That’s not what they say,” Steve says, wondering why he’s arguing with the outcome that he was hoping for. He wonders to himself why he’s not fleeing; why he’s drawn to this witcher who just, for some strange reason Steve can’t imagine, deigned to bail him out from an unwinnable back-alley fight.

His ma had taught him about witchers, back before the Bitter March, and the rumours that they counted witchers amongst their ranks, however erroneous those rumours may turn out to be. She taught him about their code of only performing services for money. She had told him not to be afraid of witchers, for they don’t meddle with the affairs of men.

Times have changed, now. Steve’s willing to give this one the benefit of the doubt, currently, given that he clearly did the same for Steve, just now. But still - if he _is_ one of the King's attack dogs, he's not going to give him a pass, just for helping him out. Not that he could truly do much to take down someone twice his size, of course, but he has to do _something_

“Do you always believe what _they_ say?” The witcher asks, and to Steve’s surprise, raises a questioning eyebrow.  
“No,” Steve replies indignantly. He eyes the way the man’s hands clench and unclench at his sides, the thick leather of his gloves creaking with it. Square, pointed silver studs adorn each of the knuckles of the fingerless gloves he wears, Steve notices.

. . . But isn’t silver for monsters? And steel for everything else? That’s what his mother had told him, when he asked why witchers carry two swords, on seeing one travel through their village to trade, and kill a local pack of drowners.

“I’ve got enemies. I don’t count the common people this side of the border amongst them,” He assures Steve. “No matter how many rumours you all spread,” He adds bitterly.  
“That’s not fair,” Steve complains, as though any part of this man’s life has likely been fair, so far. He’s heard how they make witchers – the Trial of the Grasses, they call it – soldiers, carved through long winters, from the souls of children. Shaped into weapons, and cast away into the wild, with gold a cold comfort for one of the most dangerous jobs in the world.  
“It is what it is,” The witcher tells him gruffly. He turns to leave, with a quick, “Stop fighting in alleyways. It’s where monsters live, in places like this,”

“Wait!” Steve calls, “Wait a minute-”

The man pauses, hackles rising. He turns around, slowly, eyes narrowed. Steve continues, regardless:  
“My name’s Steve – Steve Rogers. I’m an artist,” He explains. The man just blinks at him – at least his eyes aren’t narrow, and suspicious, anymore. Just confused, maybe.

“I draw, and paint – I could paint you,” Steve tells you. “I know what they say about – you, about witchers. But – people empathise, with what they see, in art. With my work. I know they do, I’ve seen it,” He says. “It could humanise you, honestly,” He adds, already mentally in front of his canvas, already splashing black, and yellow, and light-grey pain across it, to try and capture the allure of this man.

“Humanise?” The witcher scoffs. “I haven’t been human for a long time,” He reminds Steve dismissively.  
“Just let me try,” Steve persists. “You could sit for me,” He suggests, rummaging in his pockets: finally, he pulls out a tattered business card, and offers it to Bucky. “Take this, at least,” He reasons.

It surprises him, when the man actually takes it: he reaches out with his left hand, and takes it from him.

When he does so, Steve notices for the first time that, while his right arm is mostly bare, his left is clad in chainmail – only, it’s not _clad_ in it. It looks like it’s _made_ of it. His left hand’s fingertips, where they erupt from his gloves, are slightly hooked and sharp like talons – like claws, actually. It occurs to Steve that, while his right arm is pale, scarred and freckled, his left arm is completely made of likely enchanted metal.

Steve gulps, looking up at him, as he frowns down at the business card. He looks down at it for a long moment before storing it away in one of the many pockets affixed to his armour. He sighs, and pins Steve with an appraising look.

“. . . This is dangerous. What you did, here. Stupid, even,” He comments.  
“I never said I was smart,” Steve retorts. The man closes his eyes, for a moment, sighing again.  
“Fair enough,” He says, and if Steve didn’t know better – from what he’s seen of almost all other witchers he’s witnessed – he’d say he just smiled, ever so slightly.  
“What’s your name?” He asks.

The witcher tenses, holding Steve’s eye contact for a few moments. He doesn’t answer. Steve takes that as his answer.

“Well,” Steve says, breaking the silence, “It was – nice to meet you, anyway,” He comments, heart heavy with the idea that he’s about to slip away. The witcher truly is striking, and aside from that, well – there are things, in his life, that he would love to be able to afford for a witcher to investigate. _Not today_ , he thinks to himself, as he remembers his tiny box of coin earned from his art, back at his overpriced rented studio.

The witcher just nods once, before he turns away, and leaves. Steve watches him go: the way his hips sway just so, stalking like a wild, white-haired wolf, in a way that Steve longs to catch on paper, or canvas, or even in stone. Steve finds that his footsteps make no sound, despite the heavy black steel-toed boots the man wears.

How long has it been , since anyone saw the witcher as anything more than a monster? Than a dangerous threat, potentially from across the border, here on the order of the King to kill innocents?

And more importantly, how can Steve let him know that he sees him as something more?

Steve turns on his heel and starts his journey home. His mind is a blur, in a way different to how it would be if he’d actually been hit directly in the face, but no less confused. Conflicting thoughts race through his mind, a dervish, thousands of them at once – but one of them, louder than the rest, tells him: _you’ll see him again_.

His mother told him one more thing about witchers, he recalls: she once called them agents of destiny. Or had she said _playthings_ of destiny? The memory is too faded, for him to recall, which is sad. But he reaches the same conclusion, which he knows, deep in his heart, is true.

_I’ll see that witcher again._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back to my ao3 profile apparently :o
> 
> My first story in about three years, and all because Poe inspired me to write it! They actually co-wrote the first chapter - this one you've just read - which I expanded on and adapted (with their permission) to fit my overall story. They didn't necessarily want to be listed as a co-author of this fic, but regardless, I owe them a lot!!
> 
> Anyway, I've been drawing witcher Bucky for weeks (months?) now, so I wanted to develop the concepts I've been talking to Poe about into a full story, with a plot, and everything.
> 
> I want to mention additionally, this isn't a fic about Bucky being non-binary like some of my others are, but he is non-binary in this fic, by-the-by. As a non-binary author (further along in my transition than when last I posted here), that's important for me to mention.
> 
> Please know that all mistakes are my own, also. 
> 
> There are no witcher characters in this: it is more inspired by the witcher universe, not a crossover, and will only feature Captain America characters. This fic draws on elements from the witcher TV series, such as the use of converging timelines, and a few elements from the Witcher III game - but honestly, you don't need to have played the game to read this, it's all just extra stuff. If you haven't seen the series either, you may struggle, but there could be something for you here, too, in terms of a medieval AU. If not, well - not to worry, I had a lot of fun writing this :^)
> 
> Anyway. Please ffs check out Poe's writings on AO3 and on tumblr, where they can be found at:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poe/pseuds/Poe  
> https://jbbarnes.tumblr.com/
> 
> You can find me @luckycl0ve on twitter and patreon (for my art), and jaybrogers on tumblr (also mainly art)
> 
> Art credit: me!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This begins the start of the Thursday posting schedule! 
> 
> It is also the first chapter set in the past, rather than the present - the chapters will alternate between present and past from now on :^) 
> 
> Trigger warnings for this chapter: eating raw meat, and manipulation and power dynamics (more thorough warnings are available in the end of chapter notes)

_Past_

Silent, still standing is all that is required of him. Silent, still standing is all he needs, he knows, to meet expectations; to strike fear into the hearts of all but his commanders. He knows they are not afraid of him because if they were, they wouldn’t feel able to laugh and joke at his expense, insult his intelligence, and threaten him with tortures and punishments untold, should he ever take any action that they would perceive as a slight. He knows, by now, what happens to weapons that malfunction; to assets that underperform; to experiments that fail.

That is all he is.

He stands and watches as, to his slight surprise, a band of what appear to be travelling merchants enter the great hall: doubling as a throne room, used for diplomatic summits and harsh judgements of the common folk alike, today it is lavishly decorated. This generally means that the King wishes to impress. Through the beautification of the usual dark, foreboding stone hall, his intentions are made clear: he seeks to impress whoever is visiting. A politician in each and every possible way – from the diplomacy, to the deceit and the backstabbing – he knows how to achieve his goals by now. It is not by mistake that he has conquered half the continent during his reign, while Bucky has watched on, disallowed from considering the morality. He wouldn’t even know where to begin.

But merchants come and go all the time: granted, there has been . . . _Trouble_ at the border, recently, with the sorceresses there making a push to regain their ancestral homelands – but it’s nothing that Bucky hasn’t seen quashed a thousand times. More than he can remember, truly. But merchants still come, still go, still live and die without the King raising a finger.

It doesn’t make sense to Bucky, why his arm was polished, prior to this occasion; why he was given extra strength versions of his usual daily potions, in readiness for the evening; why his armour was serviced, and his underclothes washed freshly, when usually they go completely unwashed, irritating his enhanced sense of smell to almost unbearable levels, making him want to crawl out of his skin. This is treatment he doesn’t usually get. The King’s orders – not directly to him, but to the footmen and squires whose job it is to make sure he remains compliant, and presentable – seem strange, to him, at this moment.

Perhaps because of the extra strength potions, he is able to stand even stiller than usual, his face feeling like stone, his legs rooted to the floor, his spine steady as an oak tree. To feel even more frozen in position, stiller and outwardly more calm, is a feat, in itself: he has had the ability to stand, silent, hand on the hilt of his steel sword, eyes searching the crowd for ill-intent or changing glances, since he can remember. He loses time, frequently, but it has certainly been over ten years, at least. He has grown at least a handful of feet in height, maybe.

But, today, he feels almost concrete: perhaps, more accurately, statuesque. He knows, by now, that one of his main tasks is to stand, looking dangerous – a trophy, a visual summary of the accomplishments of the King’s Apothecary – a hideous vision of what might come to pass, should you cross him. He's a nightmare, with silver hair and yellow eyes, sickly pale and more monster than man. His black leather armour, his pale-painted face: it emphasises the paleness that’s already there, all for show; a bark, to go with an equally vicious bite. After all, the show isn’t really the point of a witcher: it’s the damage he can do with his blades, and his signs, that they should be afraid of. But that’s not how humans work, he’s learned, at length.

He hasn't seen himself, in his living memory. There are no mirrors where he is kept.

Bucky knows why, this time, the King has gone to such lengths to prepare, and to show him off – his prize fighter, his tamed monster – when he sees one imposing figure walk through the door.

_Another witcher._

It’s common knowledge, throughout the castle – Bucky couldn’t and can’t hazard a guess as to whether or not it’s known outside the castle, too, not having been allowed out and amongst the common folk, aside from his escorted missions – that the King has a certain _fascination_ with witchers. Though they are rare, he and his Apothecary have been trying – and usually failing – to create more for their own purposes for years. But the very few he does have in his employ, he surrounds himself with: tonight, Bucky stands sentry at his left hand; Bucky’s handler, a witcher himself, sits at the table several seats down from the King himself, at his right hand, drinking fine wine.

His handler is a lean, muscular figure with a scarred face: Bucky doesn’t know from where the scars hail, but he does know that the man was not created here. He used to fight monsters, freelance, a _true witcher_ , before he struck a deal with the King for more comfortable surroundings, training any witchers he and his Apothecary may create. He only knows this because the man himself never ceases to emphasise how _little_ Bucky really knows of monsters, how _unskilled_ he is compared to a _real_ witcher, who has seen the outside world, and battled the monsters outside these walls. Although they both know that the monsters within the walls are the reason Bucky cannot chance his hand at fighting the ones outside.

His handler is cruel and violent, in a way that everyone in the castle is towards him, but with an edge of something like jealousy, even as he admonishes Bucky for the extra mutations thrust upon him. As usual, Bucky finds himself nervously watching him whenever he can be sure he won’t be caught, through fear he will miss an oncoming blow otherwise, even from across the room.

He and Bucky, a pair of highly-specialised monster hunters, emotionless _killers_ , are part of the royal court simply because the King demands it. He likes the display of power: to have, in his employ – his _possession_ – two inhuman fighters, created specifically to hunt, to kill, like thoroughbred bloodhounds . . . It’s terrifying for any visitor. And it’s a boon to any conqueror.

Missing from tonight’s affairs is the King’s Apothecary: Bucky supposes he tired himself out during their session in the laboratory earlier, and has retired to his quarters. Either that, or he is planning something else for Bucky; or for another potential witcher, should he manage to capture lightning in a bottle again, like he did with Bucky, rather than fail and kill the subject yet again.

He is a small, beady-eyed man whose face Bucky sees every single time he closes his eyes, whether he has been subjected to examination or experimentation that day or not. The man is intelligent beyond measure, and his methods are extreme to match. Bucky has heard it said, by courtiers quickly ushered into obscurity, that the way he treats Bucky, the way he treats his body, and the lengths he will go to to strive for perfection, are obscene. But that's not a truth Bucky is allowed to believe.

Still, he knows there is something unsettling about his treatment. He knows as much not because of his own feelings – _he’s not supposed to have any, that’s not what those are, those are simply your witcher senses reacting to the magical elements in the room, boy_ – but because of the way the King’s staff stare. He knows it from the way they have to leave the room, switch with one of their colleagues, when they have to keep watch during the experiments.

It’s because they can’t stand the sight of Bucky. This is to be expected. This is what he knows because it’s what he’s been told.

No one could look at him without feeling fear; sick with it, full of dread, fearful for their lives at a simple glance.

But that . . . Is not how they are reacting to this man.

One of the King’s servants reads from a scroll:  
“The honourable witcher, Sam Wilson – of the Golden Falcon merchant caravan,” He announces, as the man steps up towards the throne, with a look of respect on his face.

Bucky has that feeling again: the unpleasant one, that he’s had to learn at length isn’t nausea, or fear – it’s a tingling, a coldness that runs up and down his spine, that comes when he has encountered something touched by magic that is in any way new or unfamiliar to his environment.

There’s no mistaking it: from his position standing to the left of the throne, he can see the man’s golden-yellow eyes. They are standard, for a witcher, he knows: he himself has a similar tone, although he is the only witcher he has ever encountered with white hair. It's a result of the Apothecary pushing, and pushing, and _pushing_ his body. He can only imagine what else has changed, about his face and body, while he has been here. No one has been keeping a record, and he doesn’t look at his own reflection; not that he can truly remember what he looked like, before being here, if there even was a _before_. He just knows he must look hideous from the way that people stare.

But when the man bows for the King, and then allows his eyes to look over to Bucky – stock-still, face impassive, eyes the only moving part of him as he tracks his movements carefully . . . He doesn’t look away. His eyes carefully examine Bucky’s pale hair, his face; then he looks him directly in the eye, the way that only his handler usually does.

Bucky tenses, because eye contact usually means a beating; even if it didn’t, it’s so infrequent for him, and never by his own choice, so it feels uncomfortable. The coldness down his spine edges up in intensity for a moment, until-  
“Ah – I see you received my invitation. I have long since wished to hold court with the famous Falcon himself,” The King says, with a smirk on his face, steepling his fingers.

And he smiles.

The witcher _smiles_.

Bucky’s eyes widen: the King misses how his eyes glance from the other witcher’s smiling, bright face, to the King’s face, and back again. He’s suddenly much more anxious than usual. He’s never seen a witcher do that, before. He’s afraid of what it means both for the witcher himself - although he’s never met another one from outside the castle, and the ones inside have been uniformly violent to him in various ways – but also for himself. He’s afraid, for reasons that he cannot explain, that the other witcher smiling will enrage the King, and result in him being punished.

If there’s a even half a reason for it, he can usually guarantee something unfortunate happening to him within these castle walls.

“Your Grace,” The other witcher says, bowing his head slightly again. Bucky is enraptured by him, from his smile, to his garb: his dark brown leather armour, with flourishes of red and gold, compliments his dark skin as it shines in the light of the throne room. “I’m honoured to bring my caravan to your court. Your offer was most gracious. We’re simply seeking safety for the night, before we ride at dawn,”  
“Yes . . . So I’ve heard,” The King says, a slow smile spreading across his face, with narrowed eyes. “Strange, for a witcher to be escorting simple merchants. Wouldn’t you earn more coin doing what you were naturally made for?” He asks bluntly. The other witcher retains his pleasant smile. Bucky holds his breath: he can’t help it, he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop.  
“Perhaps, your Grace. My school lead me to believe that I should fight and protect as I see fit – and there’s plenty of money in what I’ve got here. Interesting people, too,”  
“Quite,” The King says, sitting back in his throne, looking the other witcher up and down for about the fifth time, analysing him with an unsettling gaze. Bucky has that feeling, again, like the other witcher shouldn’t be here, for his own good.  
“Forgive me – but it seems like you know all about witchers not doing what they were made for,” The other witcher says, keeping his tone light, and non-judgemental – and nodding at Bucky.

If it were possible for Bucky to go more rigid than he already was, at that moment, he’d have done it. He stares avidly at the other witcher’s amulet where it sits upon his chest. It’s the head of a falcon. Bucky doesn’t have an amulet of his own, though he’s learned that some other witchers have them, for sensing the arcane, instead of his own mutation to be able to sense these things innately – at the cost of a deeply unsettling feeling each and every time, of course. He’d take the amulet over that, he realises, distracting himself from his anxiety.

He’s just afraid of how the King will react.

From the outside, no one would know that Bucky is thinking at all, but on the inside, he feels like he’s about to scream. He never does, though – never anywhere but on the Apothecary’s table. And even then, it’s only if the Apothecary tries very, very hard to make him.

But the King laughs. Bucky has to stop himself from flinching.

“Ah, yes. One of my Kingdom’s greatest assets. Wolf – greet your brother,” He says, a hint of derisive humour in his voice.

Bucky turns slightly towards the other witcher, and bows for a few seconds, before standing up straight. 

“That reminds me,” The King says, and clicks his fingers. A servant is at his hand in a matter of seconds. “Feed him,” He commands. Bucky’s heart sinks.

With a haste that suggests forethought, a platter is brought forth, and presented to Bucky by a nervous-looking servant: Bucky stares down at it stoically, gazing at the raw beef that lies on a shining, polished silver platter. He knows it’s only fresh beef steaks, today, because they have guests.

He eyes the King for a second, not wanting to be chastised for staring, or delaying what comes next. With a last glance at the other witcher – whose eyebrows have raised, unable to hide the unsettled look on his face – he picks up the beef in his right hand, his heavy left hand remaining at his side. Staring off into the middle distance, ignoring all the eyes on him, he brings it up to his mouth, and takes a large, wet bite.

It’s cold. He tastes blood. Freshly killed today. Young cow.

It’s not as tough as what he’s usually fed, and he feels grateful, for that. But he can’t help but feel, with no one else eating, or even talking, just _watching_ , that this is simply part of the show, put on for the benefit of the courtiers – and a display for the King’s guests. Probably the witcher, in specific. He hopes that, at least, he’s putting on a good performance. He hopes he’s good enough that he is left alone, after this.

The courtiers make their usual noises of disgust, hidden behind their hands, as the King likes them to, with every crude display of his prize highly-mutated witcher that he gives them. Anything different is a spectacle – and eating raw meat, he is given to believe, is certainly _different_. Not to him, of course.

If Bucky could identify shame, if he realised he could feel it, perhaps this is when it would register for him. He finishes the steak anyway.

From the corner of his eye, he catches the other witcher shift, hand on the hilt of his silver sword.

“Forgive me. It slipped my notice, that he had not been fed earlier,” The King says, with a tight smile, and a tone that strongly suggests that in reality, he did not forget anything. “You may eat with the rest of us when the feast is prepared,” He decrees.  
“Thank you,” The other witcher says, but his voice has a strained quality to it, beneath the veneer of politeness, and respect. Bucky believes it’s because he’s disgusted by what he’s just seen.  
“In the meantime. If you have any lessons for my young Wolf here, then feel free to impart your knowledge. He still has much to learn. We can perform all the mutations we like, and we have - and will – but at a certain stage, it’s down to the boy to learn from his betters,”  
“Of course,” The other witcher says. “Is there somewhere we may talk?”

The King waves them off, indicating the side of the room. “Music,” He commands, bored with the conversation now.

The other witcher nods his head, beckoning to Bucky to follow him: he does, walking very stiffly.

When they’re in a more secluded corner of the hall, out of the gaze of the courtiers beside one of the walls, the other witcher turns to face him – and he _smiles_ again.  
“Are you okay?” He asks, dropping the formal tone he’s had previously.

Bucky just blinks at him. He doesn’t know the answer to that question. He’s never been asked it before.

“. . . Do you talk?” He asks, smile dropping significantly.  
“Yes,” Bucky replies, not wanting to upset him.  
“. . . But you don’t – usually?” He asks. Bucky shakes his head.

The other witcher looks around the room almost furtively, trying to see if they’re being watched.  
“I’m Sam. School of the Griffin,” He says. Bucky nods, having heard of the witcher schools – but not having been able to be part of one himself. He has always lived in this castle. He hasn’t even been outside it’s walls without an escort to control his movements. They generally bring him outside, point him in a direction, and move out of the way until everything is dead. Then he’s hauled back inside in short order.

“You don’t have an amulet,” Sam mentions, when Bucky isn’t forthcoming with his name. Why would he be? He wasn’t given it, so he shouldn’t be allowed to keep it.

He only has a vague idea of why he considers it to be his name in the first place. His memory, he finds, is always very hazy, in a way likely caused by the Apothecary and his daily potions. But for some reason, he still knows his name is Bucky; if anyone finds out he knows that - that he believes that - then it could be taken from him, too.  
“Don’t need one,” Bucky replies, after a short moment of consideration of Sam’s own amulet. Sam raises his eyebrows.  
“. . . They experimented on you – more than the Trial of the Grasses,” He surmises, referring to the experiment needed to create a witcher, usually from a young boy. Bucky nods. Sam indicates Bucky’s hair, with a questioning glance, avoiding the obvious topic of his arm, for now.

Bucky just looks around the room, uncomfortable; feeling once more like he wants to crawl out of his skin. Scrutiny is not a good thing for him. Not ever.

“Sorry – I’ve heard that this kind of thing happened inside this place . . . Never thought I’d see it confirmed. Wanted to see for myself,” He tells Bucky, who summons a frown, the stone mask that is his face cracking with the pressure of this conversation. “It’s just . . . Do you, uh-” Sam begins. Bucky looks at him. Sam manages to catch his eyes, and they widen slightly – but Sam’s eyes aren’t demanding, and he doesn’t feel threatened for once by them. They’re soft, and almost warm. He’s seen that look, but it’s never been directed at him.

“Do you like being here?”

Bucky blinks.

“I-” He begins, but swallows. His left hand, where it rests on the hilt of his steel sword, flexes, the shine of it drawing Sam’s gaze. He grunts, dissatisfied that he can’t make conversation easily. “. . . Never been anywhere else,”  
“Never?” Sam asks in a hushed tone, just loud enough to hear over the music and the talk of the courtiers. Bucky shakes his head. “That doesn’t answer the question, though,” He points out.

Bucky bites his lip, and tries to remain stoic. The potion is wearing off, most likely, he knows; or his mind, his body, is overcoming it with this new rush of sensations he’s experiencing, because of this line of questioning – and by another witcher, from _outside_ , no less. His flesh hand is twitching, fist clenching and unclenching.

“. . . You didn’t lose the arm in a monster hunt, did you,” Sam supposes, looking down at the chainmail-covered limb. Bucky shifts slightly, and shakes his head. Sam raises his eyebrows at him, encouraging him to talk. He huffs a small breath, before summoning the words:  
“The experiments. Required sacrifice of a body part,” He summarises, trying to keep it simple. The words are too plain to summarise the true horror of what he went through; the price he pays, every day, for what they did to him.

“You know that’s not right, don’t you?” Sam tells him.

Bucky grimaces.

“They don’t let you out, and they hurt you,” Sam reiterates. “They don’t give you any choice, and they pull shit like-” He indicates where Bucky was standing, before, with a jerk of his head, referring to the _show_.

Bucky takes a long pause, before nodding.

“. . . That’s not what a witcher is for. You’re not a circus act,” He mutters. Bucky feels that same sensation again – the one he doesn’t know is shame. He bows his head.  
But then Sam places a hand on his shoulder, and Bucky’s hackles rise; his skin prickles, and his eyes widen once again, as he looks up and into Sam’s eyes, wild and afraid.

“This place . . . Isn’t good for witchers, is it?” Sam asks.

Bucky shakes his head immediately at that one. Though he feels fear every moment of every day, the fear he has that something bad will happen to Sam while he is here is a new one by him.

“Then you shouldn’t stay. You need to go. Hell, I bet we both do,”

Bucky licks his lips: he looks around. He can see his witcher handler, who catches sight of them, and winks at Bucky from across the room. Bucky looks directly at the floor, immediately, feeling like his skin is burning where Sam is touching it. Granted, he hasn’t been touched in his living memory without the intention of hurting him, or experimenting on him, or _punishing him_ – but even this, a non-sinister touch, makes him feel like he’s going to come apart at the seams, and burn down to ash, and all those horrible things that happen to the monsters he slays and the people he kills on command without being able to question it, aside from in his abnormally lucid moments.

He thinks that, despite the potions and today’s session in the lab, he may be having one of those moments now.

“. . . I don’t know how,” He says hoarsely, and it sounds strangled even to him – little more than a whisper.

Sam sets his jaw. He removes his hand from Bucky – and he feels much lighter than before, in his body, in his mind, almost dizzy with the loss, equally thankful and mournful – and reaches into his pouch.

“A gift. Heard what he called you. I have a few of these – for if I have to pretend to be someone other than the Falcon, on the road. When the time comes, I want you to meet me in the courtyard at the front of the castle. Don’t hesitate. You’ll know when it’s time,” He says, in short order, and holds out something to Bucky: an amulet.

An iron-grey wolf’s head. His own witcher amulet.

Bucky swallows, and tentatively takes the amulet from Sam’s hand, and into his left, mechanical one.

He glances down at the metal, as it vibrates minutely against his hand, simply registering that the mechanical arm itself is charmed to be able to move at his command. He grimaces again, and opens and closes his mouth several times, trying to think of what he’s trying to say.  
“. . . It’ll – stop working, if I leave. When they see I’m gone. I’ll lose it,” He grits out. Sam knows he’s talking about his arm. He purses his lips.

“Sometimes,” He begins, but shakes his head, starting again – “ _Every_ time, in my experience – the price of freedom is high,” He tells Bucky. “But I’ll bet it’s a price you’re willing to pay,”

Bucky looks from Sam’s face, to the amulet, and back again: Sam smiles, encouraging him, his golden eyes shining bright and warm, and Bucky knows he’s right. He doesn’t even know what kind of person he is – he's not a man, and perhaps he never was one, he doesn’t know – but Sam seems to have seen something here today that told him that the life he has now isn’t the one he truly wants. It isn’t the one he’s meant to have. It’s not the life of a witcher. Not the life of a wolf.

Then, reverently, he slips the amulet over his head: it settles on his chest, flush against his armour, where his slow-beating heart bangs out a steady rhythm, despite the fact he feels more afraid now than before. But . . . Perhaps it’s a good type of fear, this time.

The kind of fear that comes with realising he doesn’t have to be a show. The kind that comes with realising that he doesn’t have to kill humans – common folk, their children, as they all beg and scream and cry, because it’s what his body’s been programmed to do, and his mind doesn’t have the skills to disobey.

Until now. Until Sam gave him the amulet, and it settled on his chest. He never, ever wants to take it off.

“A gift, for my Wolf?” The King jests, and the music stops abruptly, as the musicians know to do should he start to talk.

The hall goes quiet. Sam turns around. And he smiles pleasantly again.

“Apologies, your Grace, if that was imprudent – I just thought, why not a wolf amulet, for your wolf, here?” He says, indicating the amulet Bucky is wearing.

The King stares, and his expression becomes amused.

“I have often sought out these amulets, as artefacts. Witchers are somewhat of an interest of mine,” He says, as if he has to.  
“Of course,” Sam says, his voice understanding. Bucky wishes he himself could be deceptive.  
“Very fitting. I will allow him to keep it. It rather adds to his charm – just like any other witcher,” The King remarks, as if he thinks of Bucky as some sort of sub-species.  
“Indeed,” Sam says, but Bucky knows, from his previous reactions, that alarm bells are likely going off in his head.

“To me,” He beckons to Bucky. “The feast will be beginning soon. Falcon, take your place with your caravan – I am sure that they will be better conversation than the beast,” The King asserts, with a chuckle.  
“Thank you, your Grace,” Sam says, before taking his leave, to sit with his companions – but not before casting one last look back at Bucky. He nods, almost imperceptibly.

And Bucky knows he wants, more than anything, to leave with him, and go _anywhere_. Anywhere where he doesn’t have to be a show; doesn’t have to feel the way he does with blood dripping down his chin, while an audience jeers. Anywhere where he isn’t forced to train from dawn to dusk and onwards, beaten when he’s been rendered defenceless, mocked when he’s hurt by dirty fighting, kicked when he’s down. Anywhere where he isn’t ripped from the small, damp stone room where he sleeps, to be taken to an Apothecary that tries and tries and _tries_ to make him scream, crooning that he is trying to make him better, and stronger, and _doesn’t he want that? To be good? To be better than before? To impress the King?_

Anywhere else but here.

Though his mind is racing, and his heart is beating harder than usual, he feels the strength that the amulet gives him just by sitting against his armour, the chain tickling the skin of his neck, and knows that he has been changed by it; changed by a witcher who can smile, and does so freely and genuinely, unlike anything Bucky has ever seen before.

He stands beside the King, silent and still, all night long. But now, as well, he waits.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your support of this story so far!! It means a lot to me :^) 
> 
> More detailed warnings: Bucky eats raw meat on command. Use of potions on Bucky in order to control his behaviour is discussed. There is discussion of experimentation on Bucky as is canon-typical.
> 
> Art credit: me!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around!! Here's this week's update as promised :^)

_Present_

Shaking his head like a wet dog, Steve steps into the tavern, and out of the rain. No one turns from what they’re doing: he’s not an imposing figure, and he doesn’t catch many eyes. Well – none that he’s aware of, anyway. 

He sighs, as he sees how messy his ragged brown boots are: he can feel water in one of them, and knows he’s sprung a leak. He makes a perfunctory effort to wipe them off on the mat beside the door, and glances up to check if the innkeeper is watching. She’s otherwise occupied, thankfully – although he doubts she hopes to keep the floors pristine with weather like this. The local witches say it will be sunnier tomorrow, though. Steve respects them, but he doesn’t know that anyone could predict something as changeable as the weather. Only the gods, and their mood swings, have control of that kind of thing, he reasons.

He makes his way up to the bar, where the innkeeper turns to him, smiling wryly:  
“Leave your cloak at home, Steve?” She asks. He snorts. He couldn’t afford one, and they both know it.  
“Thought I could do with a shower,” He says lightly, with a smile he hopes she finds winning. She chuckles, and pours him some ale. It’s early evening, and he’s been hard at work all day.  
“Make enough to pay off your tab today?” She asks, dry humour lacing her voice. She knows the answer already. He shoots her a look.  
“If only I were getting paid for getting my hands covered in charcoal,” He says, shaking his head, and taking the tankard of ale in his hands, which are, indeed, each covered in black charcoal along the side despite his attempts to wash them off. He looks about, with a great sigh.  
“Your hands, huh,” She says, sounding amused. But he isn’t paying attention, anymore.

There, in the most isolated corner of the tavern, is the witcher from two days ago. His back is to the wall, where he sits on one of the cosily upholstered benches. He isn’t moving at all, really; looking down at a map on the table, he studies it with those shining, yellow eyes, flitting between landmarks, boring into the paper like they’re about to shoot fire. _Maybe they are_ , Steve thinks to himself. _They probably could_.

Without really thinking about it, he finds his legs taking him in the witcher’s direction, sidling up without a thought as to what he’ll really say, when the time comes, in a few short seconds.

The hardwood floor squeaks below his rough boots. The witcher’s eyes flick up towards him. His face doesn’t change.

 _Okay, now’s the time, this is your chance, you just have to_ – Steve’s thoughts stop there, in their tracks, under the scrutiny of the witcher’s gaze.

Steve’s mouth falls slightly open; he shuts it again, feeling foolish already. But not ready to give up. He clears his throat.  
“You’re still here. In the city,” Steve states. The witcher blinks. He doesn’t say anything. Steve drinks deeply from his flagon. He notes that the witcher doesn’t have one.

“. . . That’s good,” He adds. The witcher sits up straight.  
“Why?” He asks. Steve blinks; takes that as an invitation to sit down, even though he’s ninety-nine percent sure it isn’t. He doesn’t know how else he’s going to propose what he wants, of the other man – well. _Man_. He’s heard that witchers may not choose to identify with that term.  
“I’ve had some . . . Thoughts, since I last saw you. About you. And me,” Steve says.

The witcher withdraws slightly, hands flat against the table, raising one eyebrow.  
“I mean, that we – look. You’re travelling alone, right?”  
“Always,” The witcher confirms.  
“Would you want me as a – travelling – partner?” Steve asks.  
“Why would I need that?” The witcher asks, deadpan.  
“I didn’t say _need_. I said _want_ ,” Steve counters.  
“And why would you _want_ to accompany me?” The witcher asks without missing a beat, wit sharper than he’s let on previously. Steve smiles, despite his cutting tone.

He shrugs.

“I want to get out there. Out of the city. And with someone to take me-”  
“Some other witchers do that. I don’t,” The witcher tells him plainly.  
“You're right about that. You’re not like other witchers, are you?” Steve says, his tone quiet, raising his eyebrows.

He pauses, at that; looks Steve up and down.

“How do you figure?” The witcher asks, humouring him.  
“You kicked that guy’s ass, two days ago. And for what?”  
“He was asking for it,” The witcher dismisses.  
“I thought so too. I was there when he was being an asshole, though,” Steve reasons. “But it’s not like I was gonna win that one,”  
“So why the fuck did you fight him then?” The witcher asks, tone half-exasperated, and half . . . _Amused_? If Steve squints, he can pretend he’s smirking at him. The expression is too subtle for Steve’s eyes, such as they are, to make out any nuance.  
“I . . . Had to do _something_ ,” Steve says, not feeling at all that his plan was flawed. “You can’t say the kinds of things he did, and get away with it without anyone saying something. Someone’s got to be the man,” Steve explains, feeling that that’s obvious.

The witcher licks his lips; he frowns, shaking his head slightly, and – _yes_ , he’s smiling, down at his own lap. He looks up, from under his own brow.  
“And you want to be the man,” He surmises.  
“No – I want _us_ to be the _men_ ,” Steve says. “Uh – I mean. I’m a man. Don’t know about, um, yourself,”

The witcher shrugs, roughly translating as, _I’m not anything, really_.

“. . . Good to know,” Steve says. The witcher sighs. Steve thinks that, maybe, he is wearing him down.  
“What can you do?” He asks Steve, appraising him.  
“I draw,” Steve says. “Professionally. Charcoal, pencil – paints. I’d bring them. I’d draw you,” Steve says.  
“You’d . . . Draw me,” The witcher says, his face and tone incredulous, in a way Steve valiantly ignores. “What’s there to draw?” He comments, hands idly smoothing out the map on the table. Steve eyes the sharp, steel, almost claw-like tips of the chainmail hand, covered in a fingerless glove though it is currently. He wonders who forged it.

“Now I _know_ witchers have a sense of humour,” Steve mutters. The witcher looks nonplussed – Steve watches him carefully for any traces of irony, or humour. When he finds none, he explains plainly:  
“You’re – well. I’ve never wanted to draw someone more than I wanna draw you. Okay?” Steve tells him. “And don’t ask me why. You’re – uh . . .”

The witcher blinks at him, making direct eye contact: he’s only done that a handful of times. Steve could probably count them on one hand, right now, if both of his hands weren’t shaking where they grip each other under the table. Today’s work took it out of him.

“I just want to. And I just want to go with you. Okay?” Steve says, frustrated that he can’t explain himself to this person, who clearly doesn’t know how stunning he is. To Steve, at least.  
“You’re a bad liar,” The witcher says, head ducking down. He begins to roll up his map carefully.  
“What do you mean?” Steve asks, taken aback. The witcher tucks the map into his pouch, which sits beside him. It can’t be the only luggage he travels with. He’s likely staying in a room upstairs.

“You have other motivations. Men always do,” He explains gruffly.  
“Maybe,” Steve relents. “But – what about you? What are your motivations?”  
“I kill monsters for money. That’s it,” He replies, shifting in his seat. Steve can see he’s losing him – he wants to leave, obviously; possibly head upstairs, and maybe out of Steve’s reach for good.

“Witcher,” Steve says, and reaches out to where the witcher’s hands are on the table. He flinches away – so Steve doesn’t touch. His hands just hover there; his intentions are clear, but he doesn’t dare touch. Not with that reaction.

“. . . You’re right. That’s _not_ it. I do want to draw you. I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable. But . . . Well, you deserve to know you’re _striking_ , for one,” Steve mentions. The witcher bites his lip.  
“But – I was hoping I could help you hunt things. Make the world safer for people. I want to learn – from you – because you seem to give a shit what happens to people who can’t help themselves. And-” He shuts his eyes, taking a deep breath, before finishing: “I’m looking for something. Or someone,”

The witcher raises an eyebrow. There’s a long pause, before he sits back comfortably in his seat, no longer on the brink of leaving. This is his bread and butter, most likely, Steve knows. He just didn’t want him to think he wanted to be a client, and nothing more – not when Steve does, genuinely, want to help him fight evil in this world. _And draw him_.

The witcher nods. Steve braces himself, taking a long drink.  
“My parents. They died. I want to know who did it – why,” He says, in a stifled voice.  
“Why do you think I can help you?” The witcher asks. His voice is softer than it had been previously. Steve didn’t realise witchers were empathetic.  
“Because whatever it was, I don’t think it was human,” Steve says.

The witcher moves his hands, ever so slightly: his fingertips lay over Steve’s where they’re flat on the table, now. He makes eye contact, again.

“I’m sorry,” He says. Steve laughs hollowly, deflecting:   
“Please. I know what happens to witchers. I know how rough life is for you. One of you told me once,” He recalls. The witcher shifts, uncomfortably.  
“. . . My life was different. To the others,” He tells Steve. Steve could have guessed, given the way he looks; the way he acts, and the choices he makes. He wonders how he’s come out of whatever hell he’s been through with his compassion and empathy intact.  
“But your parents,” Steve points out. “We probably don’t have a lot in common, but we likely have that,” He says, a note of dark humour in his voice.

The witcher just nods.

“Gone, or gave me away. Either way, they’re dead to me,” He reasons.  
“I . . . Can’t fault that logic,” Steve says, tipping his head to one side.

The witcher gives a great sigh, and studies Steve’s face: Steve can almost see him counting his individual freckles; examining each drying tuft of blond hair; his nose, crooked from fights throughout the years; the way a blush rises high in his cheeks at the slightest provocation – in this case, being looked at so closely.

Steve can’t know that he’s thinking about how not so long ago – not in the grand scheme of things – he, himself, wanted to experience freedom; wanted to get out of the city he had always known, and that hadn’t been too kind to him. Steve’s not so different from him, deep down, in what he wants – answers, maybe. Freedom, definitely.

He takes a deep breath.

“You can’t fight,” The witcher says.  
“Not really,” Steve admits, finishing his drink.  
“No – I mean, you _won’t_. I can teach you some things, maybe, but you’ll stay the hell out of the way until I think you can handle yourself. Understood?” He asks. Steve’s sharp intake of breath easily gives away – if his wide, excited eyes didn’t already – how big this is for him. To ask to be taken away, to try and solve the mystery that’s been evading him for years and years, and to be given what he wants? That’s a new one, on him.

“Understood,” He agrees, nodding enthusiastically.  
“You have gold?” The witcher asks. Steve grimaces.  
“. . . Some,” He says, truthfully.

“Not enough to pay his tab!” The innkeeper says, as she brushes past, taking up Steve’s empty flagon. He blushes even harder.  
“Thank _you_!” He says sarcastically, with an embarrassed smile, looking up at the innkeeper, as she smiles jovially back at him. “Not a lot, no, but I can try and earn my keep,” Steve says, turning back to the witcher.

And he’s – _well_. If Steve thought he was striking when he wasn’t smiling, looking carefree, just for a second, then he’s got another thing coming. His smile, at the exchange he’s just seen, breaks Steve’s heart a little, because it’s something the witcher clearly hasn’t had a lot of practice at. But at least he has the urge to do it. And because of Steve, no less.

Steve clears his throat. “Anyway,”  
“. . . Some coin is fine. Not for me. For yourself. You can pay me when we find whatever killed your family,” The witcher says bluntly.  
“Well, when you put it like that,” Steve says dryly. “Makes sense. Witchers take contracts. This one just comes with me attached,”

The witcher hums.

He looks up, and at the innkeeper, and raises his pale flesh hand: Steve can see his fingers, not covered by the leather of his fingerless gloves. He can see that they are covered in brown freckles, similar to his face. Perhaps, when he was born, he was a brunette. Steve wouldn’t want to ask. It seems rude, to remind him of what he lost, more than he already has.

He raises his thumb and forefinger, indicating to bring them two more flagons of ale.  
“This one’s on me,” He mutters.  
“Suppose I should probably ask your name, again. Since you didn’t give it first time around,” Steve points out. The witcher rolls his cat’s eyes, and huffs. He considers Steve, for a moment more, as if reticent to give his name away.

“. . . Bucky,” He says, finally. And this time, he offers a hand. Steve shakes it eagerly. _But_ -  
“Bucky?” Steve asks, blinking.  
“Got a problem?” Bucky asks, eyes narrowing. Steve shakes his head, taking his drink from the innkeeper, who looks between them, with a smile that thinks it knows what’s going on at this particular table.  
“Well – I thought you were all, sort of . . . Given those fancy names,” He admits.  
“Disappointed?” Bucky asks, quirking one eyebrow upwards, and hiding a smirk behind his flagon.

Steve flounders, not really knowing what to say, for a moment; not wanting to insult Bucky. His mouth opens and shuts, a few times, before Bucky takes pity on him:  
“Not like the others. Didn’t go to a witcher school,” Bucky reminds him. “It’s mine. I chose it. Remembered it the whole time,”  
“Remembered it . . . ?” Steve asks.

Bucky doesn’t clarify, just taking another gulp of his drink. As he does, Steve watches his silvery hair shine in the candlelight and feels his fingers itch with the need to draw. He notices the scars on Bucky’s pale, freckled forearm, as the baggy sleeve of his royal blue undershirt slips up when he moves the cup to his lips. He gulps, and not entirely from the fear that he’ll be adorned with even more scars of his own, if he goes with Bucky.

He doesn’t really care about that.

“Most witchers have nicknames, too,” Steve says. “Not that you’re most witchers,” He clarifies, before Bucky corrects him again. Bucky looks up at the ceiling; around the different patrons of the bar; down at his drink. It’s at least a minute, before he speaks him again.  
“Wolf. Or white wolf,”  
“Who called you that, then?” Steve asks, confused – _if he didn’t attend a witcher school, then who would bestow such a name on him?_ _And who trained him to fight? To use his signs?_  
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bucky dismisses.  
“We should be honest with each other,” Steve tells him.

Bucky flares his nostrils, looking frustrated with Steve.  
“Do you always ask questions that get you beat up?” He asks, his voice more gravelly with his annoyance.  
“You’ve seen enough of me to know that I do,” Steve retorts. Bucky shuts his eyes, for a second or two, acknowledging that yes, he’s probably right, they do need to be truthful with one another.  
“. . . Across the border. The Empire. Royal Court,”

Steve withdraws physically, eyes widening. He nearly spills his drink down himself, where he was trying to take a sip before; he has to try hard, not to choke on it.  
“ _The what?!_ ” He asks. Bucky just stares at him with a hard, haunted gaze. “What the fuck . . . ?”  
“I wasn’t there by choice,” Bucky murmurs, as if Steve hasn’t heard the rumours.  
“No shit!” He hisses, looking around for eavesdroppers. But Bucky already checked – no one’s listening. They’re too caught up in cards, or in a drunken stupor, despite the relatively early hour.

“You know what people say about that place, right? – About the witchers there?” Steve asks.  
“Don’t need to hear it. Lived it,” Bucky says, with dark humour. Steve huffs.

There’s a long pause, during which Steve simply watches Bucky sip his drink, pretending like he can’t feel Steve’s eyes boring into him, fixed to him like they’re cursed to do so.  
“. . . Is it all true?” He asks. Bucky shifts uncomfortably. Steve wonders if he’s used to direct questioning – then he wonders how long he’s been out in the world; how long he spent, at court, under the command of a ruthless, colonialist monarch, obsessed with grandiose displays of power, control, and _witchers_.

“Haven’t heard all the rumours,” Bucky says evasively, his tone somewhat awkward. _Yes, it's all mostly completely true_ , is the answer he doesn’t give: it hangs in the air, weighing on them both.

He stares at one fixed point on the table: it’s weird, to Steve, to see a proud creature like a witcher like this. He’s never seen anything like it.

Steve realises he’s pushed and pried possibly too far, this time.

“I hope you never hear them,” Steve says, taking his spoken answer as the truth, for the comfort of both of them. “You don’t need to hear that shit,” Steve says. “Glad you’re not a fan of the King, though,” He admits. “Me neither,”

Bucky nods minutely, not looking up. Steve clears his throat, feeling like he’s already pushed Bucky too far, and it’s been _minutes_. He can’t wait to travel with Bucky, but he knows he’s going to have to learn what topics are no-go areas; which will make Bucky look so uncomfortable that Steve wishes that, for once in his life, he hadn’t opened his big mouth.

“. . . Gods. Even if I don’t know exactly what happened – and, uh, you don’t have to tell me – I’m sorry,” Steve says. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that,” He adds. Someone has probably told him this before, but still. It bears repeating.

“It’s in the past,” Bucky says, and downs the last of his drink, before abandoning his flagon on the table, and standing. “I’m going to bathe. I suggest you get your things together, and meet me here at dawn,” He says, his words clipped. Steve can’t help feeling relieved, however, that he hasn’t changed his mind about having Steve accompany him.

Steve looks up at him, acutely aware at that moment that he is beautifully tall, and broad, as well as striking – _handsome_ , is the word Steve had wanted to use earlier, but didn’t want to give the wrong impression about what he wanted for himself and Bucky. Not that he _doesn’t_ want another kind of thing outright, but – well, other shit comes first, as usual.

Bucky digs into the pockets of his – _oh, leather, they’re leather_ – trousers, and tosses a small canvas pouch onto the table. Where it lands, it spills slightly, revealing its contents of golden coins. Steve’s eyes bulge, as it lands there, at a loss for words again, as Bucky turns away to leave.  
“That should cover the drinks. And some decent clothes. And boots. And the shop opening up for you, at this time of day,” He instructs. “And-”

He turns back, for just a second, taking in Steve’s look of shock, at the money – clearly, putting two and two together, Steve has figured out that he is an _extremely good witcher_ , to have so much money. And the understated way he offers it betrays, to Steve, that that’s only a _fraction_ of his coin.

Bucky appraises him, where he sits: skinny, indeed, but the courage brimming inside of him obvious with his every word, every movement, every breath.

“. . . Clean your face. And get yourself something to eat, _Steve_ ,” He instructs.

He disappears upstairs to go and bathe.

Steve looks around: the only person watching him is the innkeeper, who’s wiping a dirty flagon, and looking at him from behind the bar. She’s got one eyebrow raised, looking slightly smug.

Steve wipes at his face with his pale shirt sleeve: it comes away from his nose with a lick of black charcoal on it. _He had charcoal on his face the entire time. Why in the name of all the gods did Bucky agree to take him anywhere?!_

Blushing furiously, Steve grabs the pouch, and tosses her a coin for his tab, before he rushes out to go and buy some good _adventuring clothes_.

Food can wait. He has to pack. He’s leaving with Bucky at dawn. And he gets the feeling he’ll never want to come back. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still writing this, getting closer and closer to finishing it - I'm thinking when I do, and when my exams are over, I could potentially shift to posting chapters twice a week [pensive] we'll see!! 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and for all your support so far!! See you next week :^)
> 
> Art credit: me!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening friends!! 
> 
> This chapter introduces _signs_ , which are used frequently by witchers in the video games and the novels, and once or twice in the show without much explanation (not that there's much to explain really). They are minor spells that don't require deep magical knowledge to use, just concentration and a gesture. I hope to describe them well enough in the story that you won't be confused if you aren't familiar, but if you want to know more, feel free to take a look at the witcher wiki entry: https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Sign
> 
> That's it!! Warnings in this chapter for violence, one incidence of ableist language, and coercion similar to that in the first chapter set in the past :^)

_Past_

Waking during the night is common, for Bucky, on the nights where he isn’t given – and commanded to take – a sleeping draught. But this time, something is different.

What’s out of the ordinary to him is immediately apparent, as his eyes open suddenly, staring up at the damp, dripping stone ceiling: the heavy weight of the wolf’s head amulet, resting on his chest against his heart, is vibrating. Bucky’s witcher senses aren’t triggered, so there isn’t anything magical out of the ordinary in the room – and yet it persists. It pulsates, insistent, against his skin, urging him to move, to get up, to go –

 _And Sam was right._ He easily recognises the when it’s time to go and meet him. Through some unknown means, Sam is sending him a message.

He picks himself up from the floor, and looks towards the door: there will be a squire waiting outside, he knows, hand on his sword. They always rest their hands on their swords, around him. They hate being the one on lookout outside his door. They are afraid.

Maybe of him. Maybe of what he could do to them, should he have a mind to. Or maybe of what’s been done to him. He cannot tell.

He picks up his undershirt from the floor, and slips it on quickly, swiftly tying the black fabric tight up to his neck. He pulls at the rough fabric of the trousers he wears beneath his armour, tugging them on as fast as he can. He realises, watching his own desperately fast movements as if he is a third party, that he really, _truly_ wants this. He sincerely cannot wait to be out of here. He is scared to miss his chance.

He turns to the door, and steps up to it: he knows he must do something, now, which has only been touched upon in his lessons briefly, and many moons ago. It’s something every witcher can do – but something that, he has been told in no uncertain terms, if used by him, will result in punishments harsher than he could imagine. His handler, he recalled, joked that they had enough scrap metal lying around that they could probably forge a second arm, if necessary. _If you push us to that, you know how it will go._

Bucky swallows. And he speaks.

“Squire,” He addresses the man outside the door. He tenses: Bucky moves so silently, and he _never, ever_ engages with anyone out of choice – let alone a lowly squire, simply on door guarding duty. He must be frightened, therefore, at Bucky’s sudden words.

He turns, slowly, his knuckles white where they grip the hilt of his cheap sword. He stares, wide-eyed, at Bucky, through the bars on the window of the thick, wooden door that separates them. As he turns, Bucky can see that he’s no more than a boy, really. He cannot remember being that age. Not anymore.

“. . . W- What do you want, witcher?” The boy asks, trying to summon some sort of bravado, even as he shifts uncomfortably between his feet. He looks into Bucky’s cat's eyes with barely-masked anxiety.  
“Danger. In the castle. King’s life is in danger,” Bucky tries.

The boy frowns.  
“How . . . Do you know?” He asks. Bucky makes direct eye contact, prepares himself, and says,  
“ _You need to let me out. Help me into my armour. Give me my weapons. And let me go_ ,”  
As he speaks, he waves his right hand over his face in one smooth motion, casting the _axii_ sign. The one that will ruin his miserable existence, if they find out he still remembers and knows how to use it, and what’s more, _is currently using it to escape._

A faint symbol appears above the boy’s head: his eyelids droop, for a moment, before he shakes himself. Bucky holds his breath.

“So you can protect the King,” He reasons with himself, already reaching for the keys to the door. Bucky breathes a sigh of relief.

He feels bad. Not just for himself, and the risk he’s taking, but for the boy. No one should have their mind controlled – not ever, not by someone else acting in their own self-interest. He tells himself this is for the greater good, but he can’t help but envisage the punishment the boy will receive, as he helps him into his armour, and gives him his weapons, which were stashed outside the door. The boy hands him his own black cloak and leather satchel, too, seeming to want to help him out in any way he can. Bucky knows the satchel will have coin and, as all his handlers and guards are given as a mandatory failsafe in case he were to _act out,_ several double-strength bottles of the potions he is given daily. Only the very high-ranking members of the Court are permitted to know the incantations that trigger complete obedience in him at a second's notice - his handler, and the sorceresses that cast the spells they pertain to - the rest are supplied with these potions, just in case. He takes the cloak and the satchel all the same, slinging both on without comment.

“. . . I need to go now,” Bucky says to him. He frowns, again, as he hands Bucky the final knife to attach to his belt. He does so with frightening efficiency.  
“You do,” The boy says, his voice far away. Bucky goes to turn away – but he bites his lip, and shuts his eyes for a moment. He sighs. He turns back.

“ _You should leave_ ,” He says. “ _The King wants your head. Leave, and never come back, before it’s too late_ ,” He says, waving his hand again; and again, that same sign appears above the boy’s head. He nods enthusiastically.  
“Thank you, witcher,” He says, still nodding, eyes eager. “Thank you – Gods, you’ve saved my life!” He says reverently. Bucky nods, once, feeling terrible again – but, perhaps, a little less terrible than before.

It’s true: if he found out the boy let him free, even under the power of mind control (if he would even believe Bucky capable of using the _axii_ sign), the King would have him and his entire bloodline killed. Bucky probably _did_ just save him. He’ll have to run, likely forever, but it’s better than dying.

The boy strides away, making a break for the servants’ quarters, and their exit. Bucky, however, knows he has to make his getaway a different way: he has his instructions from Sam.

Taking a second to feel the wolf’s head against his chest, he sets off to make his way, stealthily, towards the courtyard’s great iron gates.

* * *

He arrives in short order: this place being the only one he has ever known seldom has very many benefits, but knowing his way around is one of them. Even with his memory hazy and incomplete due to his daily potions, most days, this is something he’s managed to retain, perhaps through fear of everything that has happened within these walls.

He exits into the huge courtyard via one of the side doors, sneaking silently in the moonlight, and evading the gazes of any of the staff still awake in the night-time. There aren’t many, and the few guards are overworked and tired.

From where he’s standing, though, he can see a group of people: chief amongst them, _Sam_. He gestures to the group – his merchant caravan – and Bucky’s enhanced senses allow him to hear that he is instructing them in hoarse whispers to leave. _Go, now – I gotta wait and see if he shows_.

They hurry out of the main exit, and into the night. Sam watches them go, shifting his weight, and looking about. Bucky thinks to call to him, but doesn’t want to attract any attention.

He doesn’t get a chance to move any closer, before –

“Evening, witcher,”

The main doors from the castle into the courtyard open up abruptly, letting through the unmistakable figure of Bucky’s handler, and four of his best men. He likes to skulk about the castle at night, roving and drinking with his small band of mercenaries: the famous _Bitter March_ in microcosm, they are a handful of its finest looters, murderers, and worse. Bucky feels his hackles rise, as he watches them approach Sam.

“Witcher,” Sam greets him in kind, hands at his belt – but all three witchers in the courtyard can tell that he’s itching to go for his steel sword.  
“Cold of an evening to be outside, isn’t it?” Bucky’s handler says, eyebrow raised. Bucky senses danger in his voice: that feeling is back, again – the anxiety fuelled solely by his mutations, telling him to run until he can’t breathe, or fight until he can’t swing his sword. He remains rooted in the shadows, for the time being, ignoring that screaming reflex.

Sam remains silent.

“And your friends – they’re already gone, aren’t they?” Bucky’s handler says.  
“They had to leave,” Sam says stoically, not elaborating.  
“Now, why didn’t you hurry on along with them, little bird?” Bucky’s handler asks, stepping right up to him, almost toe-to-toe. His group of mercenaries laugh and jeer. Sam remains silent, again, just watching him with a growing look of resentment, as he draws nearer.

Bucky knows what it’s like to be that close to his handler. Knows the stink, and the wildness in his eyes. Knows his rough hands and how they hurt.

He cannot bear to watch. He steps forward out of the shadows quickly. His handler turns.

“Looks like we’ve got enough of us freaks to start a school right about now,” He comments, with a wicked smile. It drops, quickly, as he says, “You lost, wolf? Or perhaps did you think we’d need you to help us out, tonight?”   
“With what?” Sam asks bluntly. Bucky’s handler turns back to him.  
“Hauling your ass inside. Witchers don’t just leave this place. You heard the rumours, I bet. And yet you still came here. Did you really think your precious _School of the Griffin_ taught you well enough that you’d be the exception? Pathetic,”

He draws his steel sword.

“Can’t imagine still holding onto that _delusion_ ,” He continues. “Not when you’ve seen how fucked up the kid is. You should have taken one look at him, and run away, like the coward you are,” He says, indicating Bucky with a nod of his head. “Escorting merchants . . .” He laughs bitterly. “I can’t decide which of you is worse. The sellsword babysitter, or the King’s beaten dog,”

Sam backs up a step, but the mercenaries surround him. He turns his head, fully aware of all their positions. He grits his teeth, staring with hatred into Bucky’s handler’s eyes.

Bucky draws his own steel sword, stepping forward, and up to his handler’s back.

“Sorry to turn him on you. You two were having such a nice conversation earlier,” Bucky’s handler says sarcastically, with a smirk. “Wolf – take him out. Then dump him in the lab. Having two of you should spice up Zola’s _playtime_ – and you of all people know it’s important to keep him happy,”

Sam’s eyes shoot to Bucky’s, finding them in the darkness. Without his handler looking, Bucky nods that same, subtle nod at Sam, that Sam directed towards him earlier, in the great hall. The one that means _I’ve got you_.

“Maybe my school didn’t teach me how to beat all of you in a fight on my own,” Sam concedes, lifting his sword aloft. “But it did teach me one thing,” He says.  
“And what’s that?” Bucky’s handler says, amused.  
“How to make good allies,” He says – “ _Now!_ ”

Bucky drives his sword into his handler’s shoulder from behind, and out through the front of his chest, causing him to scream out in pain, dropping to the floor instantly. Bucky withdraws his sword in a second, lifting his head to see Sam taking on the other four men: he immediately steps into the fray, teeth bared, snarling with the slashes of his sword.

He kicks a knee out from one of them while he’s distracted, striking him in the neck with his sword, arterial blood flying as he falls to the ground, gurgling. Where Sam is fighting two men, he’s clearly holding his own: the golden detailing in his red-brown leather armour is shining in the light of the moon, as he ruthlessly deals with the mercenaries.

Everyone has heard of the Bitter March. Everyone has someone or something that they love that has been hurt by them, or worse. Everyone wants their revenge.

Including Bucky. His head is full of images of the people they made him kill, the children he orphaned, the lives he destroyed, while not in control of his own hands, his own body. The memories are at the forefront of his mind, as he engages the fourth man, clashing swords with him with a righteous fury: the mercenary is caught off balance, nowhere to really turn, no real recourse against the might of a witcher that the leader of his company has consistently told him isn’t a _real_ witcher, not anything to be afraid of, really.

He lied. Bucky’s strength is terrifying. And that’s his last ever realisation, before his head is cut clean from his body.

Bucky looks up, teeth still gritted after the fresh kill: Sam is standing beside two bodies, slumped on top of each other, untying the obscenely full pouches of coin from their belts. He catches Bucky’s eye, and tells him:  
“Thank you. Don’t know what I would’ve done,” Before going back to his grim task. Bucky doesn’t stop to comment on the fact that he has no idea what his life would go on to be, without Sam; that this was simply a small favour, compared to all Sam has done for him, today. It’ll impact the rest of his life – _both_ of their lives, most likely.

“Get their shit. You’ll need it,” Sam advises, indicating their coin. Bucky does as he says – not afraid, simply deferring to Sam’s greater knowledge, when it comes to what he’ll need on the outside . . . And isn’t that an _exciting_ thought? He’s so close he can taste the fresh air, imagining what it will be like untainted by the smell of stone wet with blood. 

When it comes to his handler, he goes for his coin – but recoils, when he feels his arm grabbed, albeit weakly.  
“You’ll fucking pay for this,” His handler says, spitting blood at him. “You’ll both fucking pay. We’ll find you, and we’ll make you f-fucking wish it was just one arm we took,” He growls.

Bucky’s look of disgust does all the talking for him, as he steals his gold anyway.

“Not th-that we’ll let you keep that thing,” He says, an unhinged smile on his face, as he continues: “You’ll be a cripple – you go out that door – down that road – we’ll stop it from working,” He threatens. “We’ll never stop hunting you – everything you care about,”

Bucky wrenches his arm from his handler’s grip. He gazes down at him, in the soft moonlight, and he realises – though he’s a witcher, and he’s a handler, and he’s done things to Bucky that he never wants to think of again . . . Really, he’s just a man.

A wounded man. A man wounded by Bucky. _Bested_ by him.

He looks down at his handler – at _Rumlow, that was his name, he’s not his handler anymore, and Bucky doesn’t belong to him, doesn’t serve him_ – and says,  
“Arm’s a small price to pay, for getting out of this fucking place,” He pauses. “. . . And I’d rather be hunted, than spend another second here,”

He turns away, and ignores the filthy cursing that follows him. He steps up to Sam, and tells him,  
“Let’s go,”

Sam nods, casting a look back at Rumlow for just a second, before they both run out of the castle gates, and into the night.

As soon as they’re outside, Bucky finds that his breath starts heaving: he’s having trouble getting enough of it, like he’s just been held under water for ten minutes - his only real point of reference, for this feeling. He pauses, bending double, with his hands on his knees.   
“Hey – are you okay?” Sam asks him yet again, and he puts that same hand on Bucky’s shoulder, like he did in the great hall. Bucky’s head snaps up, making eye contact with Sam, through flyaway bits of white hair in his face. He nods once.  
“Big change, for you,” Sam notes. Bucky nods once.

Sam looks around, and anxiously back at the castle. They probably aren’t even out of sight, yet. They need to keep going.  
“Come on. We need to go,” Sam says.

But when Bucky straightens, he has a sad look on his face; he bites his lip, collecting his thoughts, for a moment.

Then, he shakes his head. Sam looks at him questioningly, as if he’s gone mad.  
“No,” Bucky says. “Can’t go with you,”  
“Why?” Sam asks urgently.  
“. . . They’ll hunt me. They made me – they have a better chance at finding me, than you,” He reasons.  
“You – wanna go it alone?!” Sam asks in disbelief. Bucky grimaces.  
“I – don’t _want_ to. I want to go with you. But – I can’t,” He explains, shaking his head again and – _ever so carefully_ – reaching out to take Sam’s shoulders in his hands. Sam blinks, glancing down at them, and up at Bucky’s face with a look of surprise. Witchers are some of the divine’s most perceptive creatures: perhaps he knows that Bucky has never been allowed to touch anything, touch _anyone_ , without express instructions, that he can remember. But the fact he has the urge to do so, right now, is something special. 

“Please – _Sam_ – listen,” He implores, and speaking Sam’s name feels momentous, to him. “They want to go after you. But they _need_ to come after me. If they try to go after us both – it splits the search party. The Bitter March are good at fucking up towns, but they aren’t a search party. Finding people – alive – that’s not what they do,”

He’s breathing heavily, still. That’s probably the most he’s said in one go in years and years. Sam looks taken aback, like he knows that. He seems completely changed from how he was in the great hall.

They both flinch, grabbing at one another’s shoulders, as they hear a war horn sound: they look up at the castle, and see torches being lit along the battlements. _They’ve been made_. 

“We have to go – now,” Bucky warns, and Sam nods, agreeing though clearly, he wishes he had another option.

He pauses, for a moment: taking in Bucky’s painted white face; the crescent pupils of his yellow eyes, blown wide with the dark and the adrenaline; the way his flyaway hair is wild and messy, nothing like it was when he stood, mannequin-like, beside the King.

“What’s your name?” He asks. Bucky looks into his eyes, taking an infinite second to deliberate on whether he wants to give away a secret he’s been holding close, so afraid of losing, for as long as he’s consciously known he’s still alive.

But when he considers everything Sam’s done for him, the question doesn’t even feel as if it needs to be asked.

“Bucky,” He says, out loud, to someone else, for the first time.  
“I wish I got to know you, Bucky,” Sam says, clapping him on the shoulder. Bucky thinks that he probably _does_ know him - at least, better than anyone else alive in the whole world.  
“But – for now. You gotta head North," Sam continues. "Find a sorceress. Called Natasha. A border witch without a coven. I think she can help you,” He instructs, pointing in the direction he needs to head: towards the woods, and the Northern marshes, far, far away.  
“Got it,” Bucky says, nodding quickly, as they start to part, no longer in contact, as they hear boots on the ground. “. . . I wish I got to know you, too,” He says honestly.

Sam spares one last smile, before he runs in the opposite direction, and away to his group of merchants, heading further south to cities beyond the Empire's reach.

Bucky does as he’s told, through trust, rather than fear.

He starts running and, knowing the horrors that lie behind him, and the tantalising possibility of freedom that lies ahead, he doesn’t stop.

He just hopes he sees Sam again, one day. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking of posting another chapter on Sunday!! Thursdays and Sundays?? What do you reckon?? 💚
> 
> Art credit: me!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to your first sunday update!! See you again on thursday :^) 
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for: some violence and discussion of death and (fictional) colonial violence, that's it!!

_Present_

Steve has been travelling with Bucky for about a week, before he gets a taste of what it really looks like when Bucky fights a monster: a fairer fight than taking out the trash in some back alley, for Steve’s benefit, for whatever reason. Steve still doesn’t quite know why he did it, honestly.

They began their journey west, away from the border, the morning after Bucky agreed to take Steve along with him, as a companion and artist. He still doesn’t quite know why he accepted Steve’s proposal, either, but he’s thankful nevertheless. Even for Steve, it was a long shot – he knows he’s small, and weak, and he was even covered in charcoal and weary from a day’s work at the time – but something about it made Bucky accept. And for that, Steve’s thankful.

He hasn’t spoken to Bucky about his parents, yet. He doesn’t feel ready to discuss it – rather, he’d like to just go along with Bucky’s usual hunts, and try and learn the ropes, first. After so long not discussing his family with anyone, he’s not ready, just yet, to talk about his memories of what happened to them.

He’s enjoying travelling with Bucky, so far: not every day is a hunt, and some days Bucky doesn’t speak much at all, content just to listen, or with silence. But during the last couple of days, at least, he’s been a bit more open to conversation: he likes to talk to Steve about the monsters he’s seen, the most. Steve is picking up more and more about monsters, as they go, and drawing all that he can; he’s almost beginning to feel a bit like he belongs alongside Bucky, at this point.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t a little nerve-wracking, to step lightly through the undergrowth, towards where locals have told them that a collection of corpses is attracting a . . . _Something_. _A something_.

Steve’s read the contract: he took it from Bucky, after he finished stoically reading it, and striding off to the address listed to ask whoever it was for details. It’s a grim tale, for certain.

The Bitter March have been active in the area, straying further and further across the border, looking for resources, perhaps, or trying to gain ground. It looks like this time, however, all they achieved was slaughtering a collection of local farmers where they were working in the fields. They went missing, not returning from work that day, their bodies gone.

But no one can look for them: one man who tried turned up dead, mutilated and . . . _Chewed on_ , the marrow cleaned from his bones. Something has taken the corpses, and is protecting their hoard, preventing the farmers from being properly laid to rest.

And so, a witcher. And his companion. It’s clear Bucky thinks he knows what has collected the bodies for its own satisfaction, and Steve would appreciate that information, too.

“What are we looking for, here?” He asks, voice low, unable to stand not knowing for a moment longer.  
“Graveir,” Bucky responds in kind, eyes tracking every slight movement of any branch, any leaf, and creature scurrying across the forest floor. Steve hums.  
“Didn’t get a great education in monsters growing up,” He reminds the witcher. Bucky grunts.  
“Necrophage – more dead bodies, more graveirs,” He responds – and that makes sense. The greater the number of excursions the Bitter March make into this land, slaughtering the common folk, the more bodies, and therefore the more necrophages. Bucky must have seen a lot of them, by now, on his travels.

Bucky had spent good time oiling his silver sword, before they had set off for these woods, meticulously preparing it for the hunt. _Necrophage oil_ – Steve realises that now. Bucky always works painstakingly, Steve can tell – but he makes it look easy to know exactly what to do, when hunting creatures that wouldn’t touch the worst nightmares of most men. It’s his experience, and his extensive mutations and training, Steve knows. But that doesn’t make it any less captivating to watch, and experience first-hand.

“Great,” Steve says. “Well, at least it isn’t another drowner,” He mutters. When he looks at Bucky with a sidelong glance, he swears he sees him smile, for just a moment. He’s woken up where they've slept on forest floors to piles of dead drowners, during their travels, before. Bucky despatched them in such short order that Steve didn’t even wake to see it.  
“Bigger than a ghoul. Three combs on their head – made of bone. Sharp teeth – ooze cadaverine – smells like rotting flesh. Poisonous – bite is toxic to humans,” Bucky murmurs, listening out for any movement other than the two of them as he elaborates. “Thick claws,”  
“Huh,” Steve hums, looking around, too, though he knows he’s unlikely to spot anything that Bucky won’t.  
“Slow your heart. It’s going a mile a minute,” Bucky mentions quietly, fixing Steve with a warning look, “You’re getting right out of the way as soon as it shows up, remember,”

Steve stares up at him with a petulant gaze. He maintains eye contact, for a few moments, but Bucky is unyielding – he doesn’t want to admit it’s for the best, given how he itches to fight things that could harm other people, but . . . In the end, he has to acquiesce. He rolls his eyes, and nods. Bucky nods too, content with the answer. Still – Steve doesn’t think he can do a lot to slow his heartrate, especially when he’s around Bucky. He knows Bucky can hear it, too. That only works to exacerbate the problem, of course.

Suddenly, Bucky stops next to the base of a great oak tree, it’s branches stretching out above them, blocking the direct sunlight alongside the rest of the thick forest canopy. Steve almost walks into him, before stopping himself. He mimics Bucky, freezing in place; he tries not to breathe, in case he interferes with whatever Bucky is sensing. This close, he can hear Bucky’s amulet vibrating against his leather armour’s chest plate. _Something’s here_.

Bucky sniffs the air, tilting his head. His face becomes grim.

“Climb that tree,” Bucky says, “On my count,”  
“What?!” Steve hisses. “I can’t-”  
“You can’t?!” Bucky hisses back, although he doesn’t move, or look down at Steve, remaining stock-still.  
“I – it would take me a while,” Steve says, feeling that he’s falling short of some unsaid set of expectations immediately.

Bucky takes a deep breath.  
“Okay. We’ll improvise,” He says.  
“And what does that mean?” Steve whispers urgently.  
“Ready?” Bucky asks. Steve doesn’t know what for, but when Bucky moves his head very slightly, tilting it down so that he can get a good look at Steve, and Steve sees his eyes – _alert, concerned, pupils blown wide_ – he knows he’s ready for whatever Bucky wants to do. His urge, at that moment, is to trust him.

His face grows determined, and he nods once.

Bucky counts: “One . . . Two . . . _Three_ ,”

And in one second, Bucky has grasped Steve by his shirt with his metal hand, and has bodily _thrown_ him high enough that he can reach a high branch of the tree. His brain takes half a second to re-calculate what is going on, before he’s scrambling for the branch, grabbing at it and thankfully, finding purchase. He swings his leg up, managing to hook it over the branch, and with a grunt, he hauls himself up so he can sit on the branch.

Panting, he looks down: where he had been standing, there is a large hole in the ground, from which has erupted – _oh. Yes, that’s the graveir, alright._

Bucky and the graveir circle each other, two predators locked in a battle: Steve can smell it, now that it’s erupted from the ground, and Bucky wasn’t joking about the cadaverine smell. It smells of corpses left in the sun too long, smell intensifying with each snarling breath. Clearly, Bucky could smell it, from above ground.

It's large, fleshy body oozes strength, it’s jaws snapping in warning, it’s claws scratching at the ground, ramping up to attack. If Steve's heartbeat was a distraction, before, then right now it must be extremely off-putting – not that Bucky shows any of that on his face. He is single-minded, at that moment, and completely focussed, ready for the fight.

It lunges for Bucky, who easily side steps, slashing with his silver sword, and easily making a cut in the beast’s flank. It screams, screeching at him, and lashing out. Steve finds himself gasping, as Bucky parries its blows with a grim look of concentration on his face.

Grim though it is, it is also . . . _Hypnotising_. The face itself, and the way that he moves, slashing and stepping, a deadly and precise dance, designed to inflict maximum damage, while taking the bare minimum himself. It’s _art_.

Steve finds himself reaching into his bag, knowing that he cannot miss the opportunity to capture this moment – the first time he has seen Bucky fight a beast, capable of killing him a thousand times in only a second, using all of the skills he has earned through bitter experience – in a drawing.

In seconds, he has charcoal in one hand, sketchbook in the other, and he’s tracing the lines of Bucky’s body: his lines are frantic, slashing at the paper as Bucky slashes at the beast, their ferocities matching one another, bodies in time, though they don’t really know it. Both are entranced: one by the other, and the other by the monster.

The creature swipes at Bucky’s legs, and he easily jumps over it – but as he lands, he does so unevenly, on one of the roots of the oak tree – he stumbles, slightly, falling to one knee – Steve’s eyes widen, and he almost cries out, but silences himself, knowing it could distract Bucky.

The creature leaps at Bucky, poison teeth bared, ready to bite down on his neck – Bucky throws out his free hand, and from it erupts a quick, distracting burst of flames – _a sign_. The creature screams, and Steve catches sight of its flesh briefly burning, in between looking down at his sketchbook. It only remains alight for a few seconds, the _igni_ sign wearing off, but it’s enough time for Bucky to stand, take aim, and cut its head clean off in one swing.

Steve is breathless. He’s never seen anything like this, before: Bucky is standing, chest heaving, as he regards the beast’s twitching, smouldering body. He looks down at his book: he has about captured the energy, and the physique, that has enraptured him for the duration of the fight.

When he looks up, again, Bucky is holding his metal hand up to his eyes, shading them from the sunlight drifting through the canopy, eyes searching for Steve. To Steve, he looks almost celestial: the light catches his silver hair, setting it alight, vibrant, amongst the glorifying rays. He sees concern, on Bucky’s face, as he searches him out.

He also sees a smile, as he catches sight of Steve; as he sees Steve’s enthralled expression, impressed and infatuated with the sight of him.

 _That smile_. It’s probably stupid, but he feels, for a second, that it was all just for him, when he sees that smile. Steve feels like he’s coming home; he feels wanted. He feels like Bucky wanted to impress him, and he’s done just that. He feels foolish, to have worried about being able to _help_ before. He knows the same as he always knew deep down: Bucky doesn’t need help with fighting monsters.

. . . But perhaps he needs help fighting the loneliness. Perhaps he needs someone else in his life, to accompany him, and to look to, after he is done fighting, to make sure all is still okay. The ambient noise of the forest may tell him he’s still alive, but it won’t smile back, like Steve does.

Steve’s eyes widen, suddenly -  
“Bucky-!” He yells, dropping his sketchbook and almost falling from his tree branch in his haste to point behind Bucky, where a second graveir has burrowed up behind him while they were distracted for a few moments by one another.

Bucky’s expression changes in a fraction of a second, alert; before Steve can blink, he has thrust his silver sword back behind him, and into the gut of the beast. It screeches, that same infernal sound as the other, and he twists the sword, cutting its scream short. He pulls his sword out, and turns around, watching as it falls to the floor, gurgling. He makes short work of removing its head, ensuring it doesn't come back to life.

He turns, again, to Steve; Steve watches, as he places his metal hand on his amulet, and dips his head. He closes his eyes, stilling completely; it’s as if he’s listening for something, concentrating hard. Steve holds his breath.

After a few seconds, Bucky opens his eyes, and looks up at Steve.  
“Safe to come down,” He says.  
“Sorry for – distractin’ you,” Steve apologies, feeling awkward.  
“No!” Bucky says quickly, and a little too loud. He pauses: “. . . No. You didn’t. You pointed the other one out. Thank you,” He says, keeping his statements short.

Steve breathes a sigh of relief: clearly, he hasn’t annoyed Bucky too much with his mere presence, yet. Hell – he even thinks that Bucky just tried to spare his feelings. That’s a new one, on him. But he supposes that even graveirs work in pairs - or, at least, these ones did. 

Swinging his leg over the branch, he adjusts his position, before dropping down and to the ground below: it doesn’t feel too great on his knees, and he curses, bending over to right himself. Bucky is there, when he looks up, eyeing him warily.  
“I’m okay,” Steve assures him.

Bucky nods. Steve catches sight of his sketchbook on the floor; Bucky follows his gaze, and sees that the book is beside his feet. He stoops, to pick it up.  
“I-” Steve begins, as Bucky flips to the last page that has any art on it with curiosity.

He looks down, thoughtfully, at the picture Steve drew hastily, during his fight with the graveir.  
“. . . This is what you see?” He asks, his voice barely a murmur. Steve gulps.  
“Yes,” He replies, not wanting to upset Bucky, but also not wanting Bucky to be under the impression that he’s going to take any shit for the quality of his art. If Bucky wants him to stop drawing him, he’ll do it – thought it’ll pain him – but his art is his craft, and he’s been practising since he lost his parents. It’s what he does.

And, thankfully, Bucky thinks he does it well:  
“A . . . Beautiful picture,” He says, speech awkward. Steve raises an eyebrow.  
“Well, when you’ve got a good subject . . .” He reasons. Bucky looks up at him for a moment, looking doubtful, before looking back down.  
“I’m not sure about that,” Bucky says self-deprecatingly. “My eyes look dark, here,” He adds thoughtfully.  
“It’s the charcoal,” Steve says. “Hard to do the yellow, in black and white. But – then again. Some people use charcoal on their eyes,”  
“I’ve seen that,” Bucky says, voice faraway, as if remembering something from a long, long time ago. Perhaps Bucky used to paint his face; used to wear black, around his eyes, at some point. He’s seen some folks do that at night, for hunting. Or maybe he’s just seen rich people wearing make-up. It could be either, with his history.  
“You ever . . . Tried it, yourself?” Steve asks tentatively. Bucky shakes his head, but sounds interested, as he says:  
“I could try it,”

There’s a pause, before Bucky takes a deep breath, and hands him his sketchbook back. Steve’s glad, that he seemed to like it – that he wasn’t angry, or dismissive. It’s a shame, though, that he thinks the picture is beautiful, but that he is not.

“Thank you. For drawing that,” Bucky says, finally taking a moment to look Steve in the eye. Clearly, he wants his thanks to land, and mean something, rather than just being a platitude.  
“Told you I would,” Steve reasons.  
“Men lie,” Bucky reminds him.  
“Not me. Not to you. Not about anything that serious, especially,”

Bucky smiles, a sad little expression, like he doesn’t quite believe it. Steve, however, is determined to prove it.

Bucky casts his gaze around.  
“Grab one of the heads. I’ll get the other. Trophies to give to the farmers’ wives. We can tell them to look here for their husbands’ bodies – they’ll be under our feet, in the graveirs’ burrows,” He explains. Steve looks at the grim mess around them, and sighs. Although this has been an exciting day of firsts, for him, he doubts that he’ll enjoy collecting monster guts as much as everything else he’s experienced so far. He’d even take being thrown into a tree, over that, he reckons.

But, still. He’s earning his keep. So he’s ultimately happy do it.

“I’ll collect the other parts for coin. You need a bow. I need to teach you how to shoot,” Bucky mentions.  
“Me?” Steve asks, straightening from where he has picked up the monster head. He eyes Bucky with surprise, as he takes out his hunter’s knife, and begins extracting the dead monsters’ claws.  
“You can’t fool me, Steve,” He says. “Any man who can draw from that many paces can shoot from them, too,”

Steve had never considered that. But then again – he’s never had money for any form of bow, be it a shortbow, longbow or crossbow.

Steve realises he’s been staring at Bucky, and his contended look of concentration as he works, ever since he said his name so casually. Bucky looks up from his work, looking into the middle distance with a frown, for a second; then he turns to Steve, with an uncertain smile.  
“Why is your heart doing that?” He asks, amused, but sounding genuinely unsure. He has no idea.  
“. . . No one’s taught me how to do anything like that before,” Steve says, palming off his pounding heart on that concept, rather than his emotions at being a step closer to being Bucky’s friend, his hunting _partner_ , after their first official monster fight.

If Bucky realises there could be another reason for his heart to be racing, he doesn’t mention it.

But as he turns back to his work, his face grows slightly pink, as much as it can: he smiles to himself, feeling the warmth in his chest grow by the minute, just like it has this last week with Steve. He doesn’t quite understand the feeling, yet, but he hopes it’s one Steve can identify for him, one day. It’s one he hopes Steve is having too, if he’s honest.

If that drawing was anything to go by . . . Well. Maybe these feelings are something they have in common. He’ll have to wait and see. He’s good at watchful waiting, by now – but this time, there’s no dread involved. Just a tiny glimmer of hope, which he doesn’t want to let get out of his control, yet. He’ll put it on the backburner.

But for now, he nurtures the feeling in his chest, and allows his hands to work on autopilot, listening to Steve talk to him about how disgusting the monster parts are, before Bucky has cleaned them off for selling. He complains about the smell, joking about it being almost as bad as his old landlord’s shoes, making Bucky smile again.

Maybe he could get used to this life, alongside Steve. Time will tell.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!! That's it that's the whole note!!!! 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: just a lot of pain, really, plus mentions of past torture (arguably canon-typical, not hugely detailed)

_Past_

He doesn’t stop running until he’s sure there are no humans for miles around. If he’s honest, he doesn’t truly know where he is, but it doesn’t matter anymore, because he got his wish: he’s anywhere but _there_. That’s what matters.

He’s forced to come to a stop abruptly, amongst trees in a greyish bog, the faded sun starting to dip below the faraway horizon: something has suddenly activated his witcher senses, springing them like a game trap, snatching at his spine, catching him like a frightened animal. They warn him perhaps half a second before he’s thrown completely off balance, down into the mud, where he falls on his left side: he knows immediately what’s happening, and braces for the pain, though he knows it can’t hope to fully prepare him.

He fell because – just like he knew it would – his arm has become incredibly heavy, all of a sudden; it swings down beside him, weighing him down, toppling him over and onto the wet ground. But it’s of little consequence to him that he’s dirty, and wet, when the pain starts.

He feels a searing hot burning sensation, everywhere the metal contacts his skin, and he can’t help but cry out: it doesn’t matter what he does, now; doesn’t matter his position, or how he writhes on the ground. It’s going to hurt. They always make sure.

His hand claws impotently at the metal where it covers some of his chest and back, under his armour and undershirt, and what remains of his left arm, taken so long ago. It’s not that he’s trying to touch it – some addled part of his mind is afraid the pain will spread to his right arm, too – but he hopes vainly to try and do _something_ to mediate the pain. His other hand is usually tied down, probably for that reason, when he’s in pain like this. They knew it was no use. Again, they made certain.

It’s like his skin is blistering, like it’s _boiling_ under that metal shell; like it’s a hot cauldron, and his body is trying to withdraw, but he’s attached to it, and he can’t let go. He jerks about, beholden to the natural reflex to withdraw from white hot pain, but helpless to do anything about it. He can’t stop himself from convulsively trying to get away from what’s attached to him. He never can.

Mentally, he’s taken back to that table – every time the magic binding him to his arm is upgraded, or altered, or experimented with – he gets this same pain, like cautery without ever being put to sleep first. But all those times, he knew control would return: after all, what use was a prize fighter, with one heavy, chainmail arm hanging limp at one side? 

This time, the visceral pain against his flesh hurts all the more, because he knows the Apothecary and his witches are back at his lab, undoing it all: they are trying to render him useless, at least in their estimation, by making his arm lifeless; removing all functionality, rendering it – and him – a _dead weight_.

Perhaps if he were more cognizant, at that moment, he could find cold comfort in the fact that they’re doing this meaning he is not on their immediate radar; that they have, in some small way, deemed his escape attempt successful. They're unable to find him, for now. Or they'd have done it already. 

He hears someone whining and crying out, on and off, but doesn’t realise it’s himself for a long, long time; at length, he focuses on where his flesh fingers dig into the mud, and the leaves, and the pond water that splashed when he fell. The coldness, the filth, the earthy smell: he tries to focus on that, to distract from the fact that his arm feels like it’s burning away to nothing, down to non-existent bones, heavy and useless and agonising.

It’s twilight, by the time the pain starts to subside. He’s panting, unsure of how much time has passed, in honesty. It’s been at least a day since his last potion, but his memory is still raw, and unstable; his affect is still a little flattened, although not enough to stop him from screaming. It never is, when it comes to the pain they specifically design to make him cry out; make him beg, make him afraid.

Well, no more.

He pushes himself up on his right hand, dragging himself through the mud, until he reaches his knees. He retches, as he jostles the metal casing against the skin of his shoulder, where it connects to his flesh – perhaps, even, to his ribs, to his shoulder-blade, to his collarbone, deep under the skin and the muscles, he’s unsure – he knows his skin has not _actually_ been burned. It’s just magic making it feel that way. He knows what burning flesh smells like, and he can’t smell it, now.

 _Burning flesh_ . . . He pauses, for a moment, gazing at his mud-covered hand, as it shakes in front of his eyes. He turns it over, to look at his palm; back again, to look at the back. He still has this. This, and his freedom. These things are enough.

He supposes they hope to slow him down, to catch him, to bring him back to that existence that’s been all he’s known forever, so far. They won’t, though. He’s made a choice, and no matter how they try and hurt him, try and render him useless, he’s never going back.

With a shaking hand, he undoes the string fastening his cloak around his neck: it falls into the mud around him, already dirty to begin with. He splays it out across the ground, and finds the hem: taking one of his many knives, and pressing one of his boots to the fabric to keep it in place, he cuts a wide strip from the sturdy, thick black fabric, not caring much for if this makes the cloak a little shorter. It’s been dragging in the mud, anyway.

Using his hand and his teeth, he ties a knot in the fabric and, ever so carefully, wincing with the jostling movements of his left arm against his skin beneath his armour, he puts it around his neck, forming a makeshift sling.

He adjusts it until it feels more comfortable: the arm is out of the way, now, and though it still hurts a lot, and he’s still shaking, he feels better already. No one will see it, now. No one will know what they did. It’s hidden from the world, just like he is, until he’s ready to do something about it.

He takes stock, after that: he slots the knife back into the scabbard it came from, one of many affixed to his armour, and surveys his surroundings. The greyness is becoming darkness: soon, he might be able to see stars; to take a moment to see them, and the moon, not being ushered along to some place where he needs to kill someone or something, before being thrown back into his small, stone room. That would be something he’d like.

But . . . He’s been running this whole time. The night has come and gone once, already, without him taking notice of the stars or the moon, just like it always does. There will be other nights. And he is very, very tired.

He picks himself up, and hauls himself on shaking legs towards the shore of a large pond, in a clearing amongst the trees of the bog. He settles against a tree stump, swords at his side, bag on his shoulder, knives in their scabbards. He covers himself with his largely ruined cloak: a makeshift blanket. More than he’s used to.

He shifts his metal arm, once again, making sure it’s secure in its sling. It hurts like hell, but he’s slept in worse pain, and worse positions, than this. _Passed out_ is probably a better description of what he was at those times than _asleep_ , but still. Not being awake is what he needs, right now, after so much running and fighting.

And that’s exactly what he gets.

* * *

He awakens at sunrise with a jolt: his first instinct is to go to put his metal hand on his sword hilt, but it doesn’t move, and he grunts. There’s still some residual pain. But not enough for him to notice it anymore, really.

His sound of discomfort echoes through the clearing. Every single sound of nature has ceased. Even the wind is still.

He has a feeling, trickling down his spine like hot wax, but cold like ice. There is something wrong.

Remaining totally still, his eyes scan the environment: it’s lighter, now, than when he went to sleep. It’s foggy, and dew has settled on the already damp pond plants that surround him. Some has settled on his own face: he feels a drop of dew trickle down his forehead.

It rolls down, and down, and down, compounding with a bead of sweat. He’s not hot. It’s his body reacting to _something_. His mutations letting him know that danger is close.

The drop of sweat moves down between his eyebrows. He remains frozen and silent as it runs down his nose, eyes not moving, eyelids not fluttering, staring dead ahead. He remains completely still, and he waits. 

Then, tickling maddeningly at the sensitive skin of his face, the bead of sweat finally drops off the edge of his nose.

He makes his move.

He leaps up, hand flying across his body, grabbing his silver sword and whipping around immediately to the sound of mangled, inhuman screaming.

He slashes before he can even consciously consider it, his cloak falling away, as dark blue blood flies through the air and onto his armour. He bares his teeth, snarling, as he slashes again, and again – he can’t count them, there are too many, they’re surrounding him – but this is what he’s made for, the flurry, the fight, the hunt, the _kill_ -

Corpses fall, the size of small men, as they snatch and growl at him, blue fins standing on end as they screech at him, fangs gnashing as he grunts and swings and stabs, his feet moving in time with his slashes, light and loose despite the heavy weight bearing him down on one side. One second, his balance is thrown off – _just a second_ – and a rogue talon catches his bare arm, not covered by his leather armour – _got to show off that pale skin, don’t we? The skin that scares them off_ – and he grunts minimally, not even pausing to acknowledge his own blood flying to the floor.

The claws grab for his face, the screeches ring in his ears, but he keeps going: he goes on, and on, and on, until, finally, he kicks the final one to the ground, and slams his silver sword down into its throat, twisting with a triumphant growl.

He watches the light leave its hateful eyes, and knows that this time, he was the hunter. This time, he’s done what he was always meant to, truly – fulfilling the destiny he didn’t know he always wanted, and that he has always been denied.

His breath heaves, but not with the exertion; the adrenaline fades slowly, and the feeling down his spine dies down, and he feels . . . Almost normal.

. . . Hm. Nothing has ever resolved that _on-edge_ feeling quicker, or with more satisfaction, than killing these monsters.

He takes in the bodies around him – about a dozen of them, lying strewn about – their blue skin, fins, fangs, talons and claws – _drowners_. Scourge of swamps. He should have known better than to fall asleep here, but he was so exhausted. He’ll have to do better in the future.

Although . . . Drowners tend to be territorial; they move and hunt in small packs, repelling other monsters and other packs of drowners alike, feasting on errant travellers. That makes it likely that he just destroyed all of the ones in this area. Perhaps he has a little time to himself, with these woods as his homestead; at least an hour or two, before he must move on, for fear of further attacks.

First thing’s first: he wipes his sword on the leaves of a pond plant, and sheaths it, vowing to invest in blade oil as soon as he gets coin that he doesn’t have to spend on food. Then – to business. If he wants to get any further coin, he needs something worth selling.

He takes a hunting knife from his belt, and sets to work cutting off parts of the monsters – fins, claws, teeth, eyes, fingers – placing them all carefully in his pouch, and silently hoping that he can find a town with a merchant to sell them to soon. He has no idea what a good price is, for various drowner parts, but he doesn’t know that any ordinary human could do what he just did and survive to sell the resultant parts.

. . . And one-handed. He realises, blinking, that he didn’t even need his other hand, for that particular fight. Perhaps one day, he will make the King regret having had him trained so well; make his handler regret having treated him so cruelly; his unattainable standards, and his cruel methods. Because he certainly didn’t feel that he had any kind of _deficit_ during his first true monster hunt, with no escort, and no one to judge or control him.

However – he is injured. He gathers his things, and heads for a region at the shore of the pond that is grassy, and less wet and muddy. Looking around furtively, he edges towards the water’s edge, and readies himself to scoop up some of the clear water to clean his slashed skin.

But as he reaches for it, he pauses, the gentle beginnings of the day’s sunlight reflecting off the water and back onto his face.

He stops. He stares.

Yellow cat's eyes – _golden yellow_ – stare back at him. He sees them framed by long, silver-white hair, tied back partially to keep it out of his eyes. He sees very pale skin.

He's always known, logically, what features unsettled people about him, prior to this moment. But he couldn’t remember how his facial features looked; how they fit together, to form what other people see. He blinks and, in the water, he sees a ghost with his own face biting down on a bloody, fresh raw steak staring back at him, eyes far away, vacant. He recoils.

He becomes very, very conscious of the way the pale paint, last applied before the feast two days ago, sits stale on his skin, tainting him.

He reaches out, touching the surface of the water, dispelling the image he sees: it ripples, and distorts, as he sticks his hand in, taking a breath with how cold the water is. But he couldn’t care less, at that moment. He knows exactly what he has to do.

He stands quickly, and – with yet another look around – starts to undress. He undoes the myriad buckles of his armour, and tugs his gloves off with his teeth. He drops his belt of knives to the ground, and carefully lays down both swords. He toes his boots off, along with his trousers, and his shirt. He briefly considers taking his undergarments off, but the idea of it makes him uncomfortable. He decides to keep them on. And then he dives in.

Deep underwater, he screws his eyes shut. His mind sharply focuses, just trying not to breathe the deathly cold pond water, for a moment, before he acclimatises to the temperature. He finally relaxes, slowing his mind and letting it idle for once. The muscles around his eyes relax, but they remain shut, as he takes a moment to just be in his own head, and try not to be afraid of what he finds there.

_Do you like it here?_

This time, he doesn’t see the Apothecary’s face, when he closes his eyes. He sees Sam’s face. The way Sam searched his face with actual care, golden eyes genuinely concerned about what they saw. He recalls how he came to the Royal Court, knowing damn well that it could be extremely dangerous for him, based on the rumour that there was something strange going on with the court witchers. The way he almost sacrificed everything, to show Bucky what freedom can look like. He gave that to him. And Bucky is so, so glad he took it.

_A gift, for my Wolf?_

The sneered words appear unbidden in his thoughts. He flinches. His eyes fly open, and he stares through the half-murky water, mutated eyes able to see perfectly well all the details of the subaqueous world around him. The reeds, the leaves, the fish that swim away from him: it all seems disturbed by him, for a few moments, before it falls back into its natural rhythm. He could stay here forever. If only the voice of the King would leave him alone.

He surfaces, edging towards the shore; he dunks his face under the water, again, wanting to be clean.

_How long, I wonder, can one such as you hold his breath?_

_I have asked for permission to find out. Today, it has been granted._

_. . . Well it certainly won’t last long if you keep screaming, now, will it?_

With his face under the water, he grits his teeth, and scrubs. Hard.

With his eyes screwed shut, he can’t see the white paint billowing out from where he scrubs: not until he surfaces, again, heaving for breath not because he couldn’t stand to hold it any longer, but because of the memory brought about by trying to do so.

As he pants, he looks down at the water beneath him: the pigment surrounds him, dissolving away into nothing very slowly, from where he washed it from his face. He’s losing part of himself given to him against his will. The paint has rubbed off his arm, too: when he looks down, the cut from the drowner claw has stopped bleeding, not that deep at all, really. Only a very minor error. No one will be punishing him for that, today. But the skin around it has been cleaned too.

. . . He notices something about his arm, that he had never noticed before, due to the pale paint that has always been applied to him to make him look more fearsome.

There are freckles. Lots and lots of brown freckles.

He would rub at them, if he could, but he can’t with one arm. He notices similar on his chest, though, and rubs them with water: they don’t budge. They’re part of him.

 _They tried to get rid of all the pigment – in his hair, in his skin. He thought they succeeded, because of his hair. But they didn’t even come close_.

As the water settles, and he is still, the swamp around him continuing its ambient harmony, he looks down at the water he stands in. The sun peeks through the fog, as it rises further still, and he focuses on his reflection, again.

 _There_.

They’re on his face, too.

He reaches his hand up, to his face, and marvels. There are freckles all over his face: his cheeks, his forehead, his nose. It feels hot, where he touches it, but not the blistering heat that he experienced yesterday when his arm stopped working – not the same as the slight, diminishing residual pain that still lurks on his whole left side – it’s a weird, hot pressure behind his eyes, that he cannot avoid or rationalise.

He sharply intakes his breath, as he notices the water ripple where his body disappears into it, something disturbing the surface tension.

A tear. _He is crying_.

 _He can cry_. And not due to physical pain, or his eyes being held open for too long; not via medicines, or poisons, or tortures half-remembered or seared into his consciousness.

He is crying because he is happy to see himself. He can’t remember seeing himself – the real, unadulterated him, in as much as that exists anymore – at any time in his life.

 _Run along – make us proud, catch something for us, like you always do_ , someone tells him, from deep in his brain. _But run home safely as soon as you can._

He blinks. The voice is gone. Was it ever even there?

He spends a long time just swimming in the lake: it's true that he's weighed down by his dead-weight left arm, but in another sense, he feels more weightless than ever. For the first time he can remember, he washes his own hair; his own body. He washes his muddy cloak in the water, too, alongside his undershirt. He spends time just floating in the water, staring up at the brightening sky, as it shows him its myriad, contrasting colours. He feels like he’s seeing them for the first time, in the same way that he’s just seen his own.

When he’s finally done in the water, he steps out onto the shore, again: he gathers some wood from nearby, and uses the _ignii_ sign to light a fire. He warms himself beside it, sitting on a log; the very cold water evaporates off his skin, chilling him further. But rather than unpleasant, it feels – _he_ feels . . . _Fresh._ New. A new person, actually _himself_. Maybe not reborn – he hopes no one would ever be born as damaged as he is – but somewhere along the way to it.

He catches a fish, using his unnaturally fast reflexes to grab one from the water, and considers eating it raw – but now that he has a fire of his own, he doesn’t need to do that. He doesn’t have to eat anything raw, by force, anymore. It’s a startling revelation.

When he feels he is dry enough, he dons his trousers, and waits for his undershirt and cloak to dry, while cooking his fish. He sits, shirtless, waiting for them to warm up, and trying not to think about why the smoky scent sets him faintly on edge. He pushes it down deep inside. It’s not important, right now. He won’t ruin this for himself.

Time passes, as the scene around him grows from a foggy morning into a warm day, full of possibilities and opportunities. That’s a feeling he’s never had before, about any day. He doesn’t know it’s simply the absence of dread; not knowing, for sure, that he will suffer. It’s almost intoxicating, acting in stark contrast to his usual potions.

He’s free. And that’s all he needs, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my twitter: @luckycl0ve  
> my art tumblr: jaybrogers.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday!! Things are going to get significantly gayer from here on out let me assure you. 
> 
> Speaking of - I will pre-warn you now that at one stage the rating of this fic will go from M to E for a couple of nsfw scenes. If you're not into that, no worries if you don't want to read further!! The scenes will be warned for in the author's note before the chapter, I promise. Anyway, that's not relevant for this chapter, but I thought I'd share now :^) 
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for: discussions of eating behaviours/not eating in front of others, discussion of abuse, alcohol use

Bucky is an expert marksman. Steve would have known that without seeing it first hand – would have _assumed_ it, just from everything else he knows about him. But regardless, as he’s standing watching him take aim in a fraction of a second with the crossbow he bought with their latest town’s bounty, he can’t help but be impressed when the bottle he set up fifty paces from them smashes into a thousand pieces. It didn’t even look like he was looking down the sights, for those two seconds of aiming; he looks like he just had a _feel_ for how and where to aim, despite this being a completely new weapon.

But, then again. Steve has no idea how many types of crossbow he’s fired, before – or what he’s shot with them. He probably couldn’t even guess.

Bucky lowers the crossbow, and hums.

“Well when you make it look _that_ easy,” Steve mutters, already feeling inadequate at the display. Bucky had agreed to show him the ropes, last week, and this week he followed through. They just had to get to a town with a decent enough weapons manufacturer, in order to get Steve a crossbow that’s a good size and weight for him. He’d picked up about ten, before Bucky had been sure enough to part with their gold.

 _Their_ gold. Bucky had insisted he get half the money from the contract on the graveirs. His half, he let the farmers’ wives keep, given how it was truly the last of their savings. But Steve still found himself dumbfounded, when Bucky handed him his earnings, and told him, _this is yours. Wouldn’t be standing here without you._

Steve had left a drawing of Bucky on the town notice board, before they left the next day. He wants everyone to know they were there; wants them to see Bucky, in the future, and know that he’s a hero, even if he doesn’t think so. If Bucky had seen the drawing pinned up, he hadn’t said anything.

Bucky hands Steve his crossbow, and he hefts it in his hands, for the hundredth time that day. He still can’t believe it’s _his_. He doesn’t enjoy the concept of killing animals, as the shop owner had spoken constantly about, but . . . He likes the idea of feeling _useful_. And in a way that’s more than yelling, _look out behind you_.

Steve looks up, and across the field, to where Bucky has set up bottles at ten, twenty, and fifty paces, balanced on various stone fences. He swallows, before setting his jaw determinedly.

“It is easy, really,” Bucky tries to convince him. Steve snorts.  
“Yeah. When you know how,” He responds.  
“That’s why I’m gonna tell you how,” Bucky says, with a smirk. He catches Steve’s eye, for a second – their gazes linger on one another, for just a moment, Steve feeling caught off guard by how easily he is smiling for once. Then he remembers himself. He rolls his eyes.  
“Go on, then,” He says.

“First, you have to draw the string. Usually best to do that with your foot on the stirrup,” He says, and Steve does as he says, glancing up at him as he goes to check he’s doing the right thing. “Hook your index and middle fingers over the string – that’s it. Pull it back, til you hear it click,” He instructs.

Steve does as he says: drawing the bow makes his arms shake with effort, his fingers turning white with the pressure, but he’s a stubborn son of a bitch, so he makes it work. With a grunt, he manages to pull the string back, until it latches into place. He huffs out a breath.  
“Good,” Bucky comments. “You can get a crank, too, if you have the time to do that. They aren’t quick to reload, so you have to make the shots count,”  
“Noted,” Steve says, although truly everything after ‘good’ was not entirely at the forefront of his thoughts, a little fuzzy as his mind marvels at the slight praise.

Bucky hands Steve the quiver of crossbow bolts: they’re shorter than traditional arrows, meaning Steve can affix the quiver to his belt without worrying if it’ll graze his goddamn boots. He’s thankful for that, at least.  
“There’s a brightly-coloured side to each bolt. Blue, for these ones,” He says, and when Steve turns one over in his hands, he can see the dark varnish shining back at him. “That’s the side you place down on the rail,”

Steve understands his meaning: he puts the bolt, blue-side down, onto the crossbow, and it slots into place; it clicks with the string, secure, until he wants to pull the trigger.  
“Like I said. Easy,” Bucky tells him, with an amused glint in his eye.  
“This wasn’t the bit I was worried about, Buck,” Steve says flatly – although his face betrays him, a smile pulling at his lips.

Bucky shakes his head at his grousing, before continuing:  
“Now-” He takes Steve by the shoulders – _so gently_ , always so careful with Steve, when he isn’t throwing him up into trees, that is – and faces him towards the glass bottle set at ten paces. “Feet a shoulder width apart. Shoulders square on at the target. Face it head-on. Don’t be scared,” He advises, though he doesn’t think Steve has ever been truly scared of anything in his life. Or maybe he’s just never run away, if he has been.

Bucky positions himself behind Steve, almost flush against him. He could rest his chin on Steve’s head, if he had a mind to. Steve feels himself sweating, as he remembers that Bucky can definitely hear his heartbeat at all times, including right now, when it probably sounds like that of a snared rabbit.

He blinks. He refocuses. He forgets about snared rabbits. Bucky starts talking again.

“Left hand at the centre of the foregrip,” Bucky says, and brings his left hand up to adjust Steve’s left hand. Steve can’t help but keep his eye on the hand, gloved though it is, as the steel-tipped fingers brush against his own as softly as they can, being what they are, and what they’re made of. Still – Steve gets the strange feeling that he’s safe, when he’s with Bucky, even (and perhaps, especially), when he’s close like this.  
“Mind you keep your fingers below the rail – you don’t wanna end up like me,” Bucky says, a note of dark humour in his voice. Steve would laugh, if he wasn’t inadvertently holding his breath, right now.

"Butt of the stock against your shoulder. Press your cheek to the side of the stock, further up,” He says, and Steve does as he instructs, pressing the stock up to his cheek. The wood is soft, and smooth: Steve can see, now, why Bucky was so particular about feeling each of the weapons at the workshop. He wouldn’t want Steve to get splinters in his face.

In this position, Steve’s looking through the sights. Through it, if he shuts one of his eyes, he can see the glass bottle: he imagines what it would be like, if his chance to eat that night – or someone’s _life_ , even – relied on him hitting it.  
“Good,” Bucky says, again, though he’s barely whispering anymore. He doesn’t need to be loud, when he's so close.  
“Breathe. Relax. And squeeze the trigger,” Comes Bucky’s instruction.

Steve needed to be told to breathe. He does so, hearing the usual rattling of his own chest, as the wind dies down across the field. Everything goes quiet. He counts to three. And he squeezes the trigger.

He doesn’t dare move, or take his eye off the bottle, as the shot goes off: it sails through the air with an audible whistle that surprises Steve, never having been so close to a crossbow firing before. Not with his face pressed up against it, at least. And not in the deathly quiet of an afternoon field, all alone, bar a witcher.

The bolt finds its mark somewhat: he watches as it clips the bottle, to one side, knocking it off balance, so that it topples wildly from one side to the next. It doesn’t fall down.

“You hit it!” Bucky says triumphantly, leaning back from his position so close to Steve, and clapping him on the shoulder. Steve doesn’t realise how warm he is, until he’s gone.

He lowers the crossbow, disappointment visible in every line of his body:  
“I didn’t break it,” He says, shaking his head.  
“Steve. It’s your first try,” Bucky reminds him.  
“Bet you hit the bottle on your first try ever,” Steve counters.  
“I have witchers’ eyes. And you were closing one of yours,”

Steve nods. When he doesn’t offer an explanation, Bucky asks him, “Why do you do that?”  
“One of my eyes is bad enough that it helps to shut it,” He answers shortly.  
“Oh,” Bucky says. He regards Steve, for a moment more, with a curious expression. “I . . . Wouldn’t have guess that. Having seen your drawings,”  
“Now you know why I didn’t think I could shoot. The last thing I wanna do is take your eye out,” Steve says glumly.

Bucky looks around, at the empty field they find themselves in: he’s taken Steve far out from the village they stayed in, last night, to train him. He didn’t want him to be self-conscious – plus, the idea of a witcher training a human to shoot is an uncommon situation, and not one he’d care to explain to anyone walking past.

“We have time,” He decides. “You’re gonna practice. And we’re going to take the time to adjust the sights, until they’re right for your eyes,” He adds.

Steve considers that, for a moment: yes, it makes sense. But the idea of Bucky setting aside a whole day to buy Steve a crossbow, to head out into the middle of nowhere, and adjust all the equipment for him, when he knows damn well he doesn’t _need_ Steve to be able to shoot to do his job? Well. It feels like another unspoken way for Bucky to admit he cares about his travelling companion, without saying it outright.

“Thank you, Buck,” He tells him. Bucky just nods.

* * *

Steve sees another silent way that Bucky tells him he cares about him, more than he does any other human that Steve’s seen, the next evening.

Bucky has long since disappeared upstairs, for the evening, by the time Steve manages to wrangle some food from the innkeeper: he was haggling over price, for a little while; then, when the food came, he knew he didn’t want to eat stale bread and meat that looked as if it had been out for five days before being cooked for too little time. He knows that witchers can eat almost anything they like, truthfully, but he doesn’t need to put Bucky through that, either.

Eventually, he managed to get them some half-decent bread, and some cheese, and apples. Not much after a long morning of more crossbow training today, plus an afternoon laying a ghost to rest. Steve had stayed out of the way, for that one: ghosts can’t be hit with crossbow bolts, and having only been practising for two days, he wouldn’t want to try and hit one even if they could. He’d be too scared to hit Bucky.

It had clawed at Bucky’s neck with sharp, ghostly talons. Turns out, it doesn’t matter if they’re not corporeal: they’ll still rend flesh, if given half a chance, although Bucky insisted the wounds weren't deep at all. He dispatched her quickly, after that, using a sign to lay down a trap for the spirit. When it sprung the trap, he was easily able to put it to rest. Forcefully.

The person who gave them the contract was happy, at least. And Steve did a good drawing to leave on the notice board, not worrying about giving them away, as is usual for him. Aside from that first drawing he did for Bucky, of course: that one, he’ll keep with them.

Remembering as he ascends the stairs how Bucky hadn’t truly minded the bleeding from his neck, as it got all over his shirt, Steve wonders if he has a lot of scars. He doesn’t expect to find out the answer, when he gets to their room.

He walks through the door, saying, “Sorry about the wait, Buck – had to give the innkeeper a piece of my mind, about the standards of-”

He pauses, almost dropping the basket of food. Bucky is in the tub.

His hair is wet, like he was submerged, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes ago, drying beside the fire in its own sweet time. Along the sides of the large tub sit his arms, just resting, as he dozes, eyes shut, head tilted to one side in gentle repose. His neck, where the ghost scratched it, is already healing nicely. A perk, of being a witcher, it would seem. 

Steve can see clearly what he usually just sees glimpses of: the area where his metal arm meets the flesh of his chest, and shoulder. It’s lined with symbols, a faint light-pink, branded into the skin through some wild ritual he couldn’t guess at, but that he’s sure hurt more than anything he could imagine. Where the burns end – the messy, brutal ones, and the neat, deliberate symbols – greyish chest hair arises. Steve can see a few faded scars: mainly the ones on his right arm that he can see all the time, anyway. But a few on his chest, and on his usually-covered flesh hand, that he didn’t know about.

Bucky opens his eyes, and zeroes in on Steve. His face, as usual, is impassive; his eyes are the only moving part of him.

“Oh – gods, sorry,” Steve begins to mumble, feeling bad about invading Bucky’s privacy. “Sorry – I’ll just – leave this here – sorry, I’ll go and-”  
“Stay,” Bucky says. “If you want,”

Steve pauses, yet again: he knows he must be staring like an idiot, and that he probably has been for way longer than intended. He hopes Bucky doesn’t mind; hopes it doesn’t remind him of the people that ogle him in the street, with unkind words on their lips, and murder on their minds.

“. . . Okay,” He says, given that he’s been invited. It’s not as if Bucky couldn’t bodily throw him out, if he wanted to, even nude.

“Didn’t realise you could get that thing wet,” Steve says, as he moves to the end of the bed, near the fire where the tub sits. When Bucky glances up, he can see Steve is indicating his arm. He smiles, briefly.  
“Sure,” He confirms quietly. “It’s warded – see,”

He cups his right hand, and pours water onto his left forearm. Steve watches, as some of the water seeps between the chainmail – and out the other side.  
“It’s hollow?” He asks, eyebrows raised in surprise. Bucky nods.  
“There’s a metal framework in there. The chainmail is just a covering. It’s enchanted to repel damage from the elements – and from magic,” He pauses. “Means I can swim, still, too,” His voice is faraway, lost in some distant reverie.

Steve waits, for a moment more: he doesn’t elaborate further, but all the same, Steve is glad to hear that water isn’t going to rust his arm into disrepair.

He places the food down on a small table at the foot of the bed they’ll use, tonight. They usually have to share, given that there’s two of them, and most inns have one bedroom to rent for a night at most. It doesn’t bother Steve: he’s barely caught Bucky sleeping, and he’s not sure he does, too much. If he does, he hides it to be when Steve, himself, is also asleep. Perhaps he doesn’t trust Steve.

Although – Steve watches, as he takes a long, hard look at the food that Steve just put down. He glances up at Steve, who’s trying to look anywhere else, right now; he elects to pull a bread roll from the basket, and eat it, watching Bucky only with his peripheral vision. Steve knows he doesn’t like to be stared at, and he honestly _is_ trying his best not to look.

Bucky’s eyes flick back down to the food. Finally, he reaches out, and plucks a green apple from the basket. He stares at it, for a moment, and Steve can see the water rippling, hears its gentle lapping at the sides of the tub, from where he’s sitting on the end of the bed. He doesn’t make a sound.

Eventually, he hears Bucky bite into the apple: he looks up, eyebrows so high they’re at his hairline.

“Didn’t have any evidence you eat, before now,” He comments, conversationally, not trying to be unkind. He starts to eat his own bread roll.

He sees Bucky bring his knees up right to his chest, as he chews, and swallows.

“. . . Why is it, you don’t like people seeing you eat?” Steve asks quietly.

Bucky looks down, and into the dark water: it’s almost black, in the semi-darkness of the room, lit only by candles and by the light of the moon shining down on them from outside. It’s a full moon, tonight.

He sees Bucky shut his eyes, and take another bite of the apple. He watches how he eats slowly, and deliberately, as if forcing himself to do it. Steve is immediately beginning to regret his question. Tonight doesn't seem like a good night, for Bucky. He shouldn't have intruded. 

But this is when it happens – another way Bucky lets Steve know he cares about him, without saying it outright. He tells him something he hasn’t told anyone, in the years he’s been away from the King’s Court:  
“Back when I was with them,” He says, and Steve easily knows exactly who he’s talking about, “He’d feed me, in front of people. Raw meat,”

Steve gapes. He can already feel himself going red with anger within seconds, as Bucky’s words hang in the air, accompanied by the crackling of the fire.

“What the fuck?” He murmurs, in solidarity.  
“Like a show. Don’t like to be a – a _thing_ ,” Bucky tells him, closing his eyes, again.

“. . . I can go,” Steve says, suddenly realising the magnitude of the fact that not only is Bucky _eating_ in front of him – he’s also _bathing_. He sets down the bread roll, and moves to go, before-  
“Wait,”

Steve pauses, by the door, and turns back: when he looks back, Bucky has a look on his face that Steve didn’t know he could make, let alone would let anyone see. It’s like he’s pleading with him, without saying the words out right.  
“I didn’t mean you. You don’t . . . Make me feel like a _thing_ ,” He says, his tone uneven, like he’s having trouble finding the words. Steve turns his whole body back towards him.  
“Because you’re not. You’re a person,” He says, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world to him. As if it’s just _right_. As if it would be obvious to anyone in the world who would look at Bucky, right now, sitting in the tub, eating an apple, that he’s got a soul.

Steve wishes that were the case. Almost as much as Bucky does, maybe.

Bucky swallows, and looks down into the water, again: Steve catches him looking at his own reflection, and knows what it’s like, to wish you were something else. Better, stronger, less affected by the mistakes and traumas of your past – all your regrets. But he knows, in reality, that to leave them behind would be to become someone else.

And he doesn’t want to be someone else. He doesn’t want Bucky to be someone else, either. He wants him just as he is.

He wishes he knew that. But, like Bucky, he doesn’t let him know by saying it. Instead, he says:  
“You’d better finish that,” He nods to the apple. “It’ll go brown. My ma always used to say it’ll rot your stomach, if it goes brown. Think she was just trying to get me to eat quicker. Or more,” He mentions.

Although he's clearly still bothered by his considerations of his past, Bucky makes the effort to smile at him. He smiles back, for a few seconds, just savouring the moment.

“. . . You want me to brush your hair?” He asks. “Used to do that for the girls at the orphanage. Promise I’m – well, _was_ good,” He says. Bucky shoots him a doubtful, but amused, look.

He nods, finally, and takes a bite of the apple. Steve settles on a stool behind him, and uses a brush he had been eyeing up sitting on the mantlepiece to do as he says. From this position, he can see more of Bucky’s scarred, pale, freckled-covered body, but he tries not to look on purpose. He just focuses on the way that Bucky relaxes under his hands, as they untangle any knots left by the water, and smooth out the long, silvery strands.

Bucky tells him some more bad memories. Steve tells him some more good ones. They eat, together, with Steve sitting behind Bucky, so he feels a lot less self-conscious about it.

They make it work – together, they make it work. And both of them, regardless of what the other thinks, or how much they want to acknowledge it, knows they’re growing closer by the moment.

* * *

Not every night is a sweet, gentle affair: some nights, they celebrate in a way that’s a little more overstated.

Steve is sitting at the bar, watching as Bucky finesses some young ruffians out of their money at darts. He laughs, as Bucky takes a dramatic bow, cheeks flushed from the alcohol, ignoring their harsh curses as he collects their coin. As he makes his way over to Steve, he _beams_ , tossing him a coin.  
“What’s this for?” Steve asks, amused.  
“I wouldn’t’ve gone over there, if you didn’t point them out,” Bucky tells him. “It’s your cut,”  
“I said they were giving us a shitty look. Not to go and beat them at darts,” Steve corrects him.  
“Better I beat them at darts, than in a fight, Steve,” He retorts. “I don’t wanna be kicked out of another inn for _rough-housin_ ’,” He mentions, speech slightly slurred. Steve blushes – _yes_ , he’s gotten them kicked out of three inns, so far, for trying to square up to people who were talking shit about Bucky.

And _no_ , he doesn’t regret it. Bucky didn’t mind, it was clear as day to see. He likes sleeping outdoors, Steve has learned, by now. They spent those nights beneath the stars: Bucky recounting stories of the monsters he’s slain, nearby, and reassuring Steve that they’re most definitely _dead_ ; Steve pointing up at the constellations, and explaining each of their names, and mythologies, to Bucky. He’d never heard of the constellations, before – or he’d not been allowed to keep that knowledge. Either way, it was Steve’s pleasure to teach _him_ something, for a change. Especially when he was such an eager pupil.

“I didn’t realise witchers could get drunk,” Steve confesses. “How’d you manage to beat them, like this?”  
“ _You_ could’ve beat them, like this,” Bucky says, taking a seat on the barstool beside Steve, and ordering another ale for each of them, holding up two of his metal fingers.  
“I doubt that,” Steve huffs.  
“You could! You’re a good shot,” Bucky tells him.  
“With my sights adjusted, maybe,” Steve dismisses.

He near-enough jumps, when Bucky puts his arm around his shoulders, and squeezes:  
“ _Without_. They were terrible. And now, we have even more reason to celebrate,”

Steve looks down at Bucky’s metal arm, where it surrounds him: not for the first time, he wonders if it feels. If it doesn’t, Bucky’s got some excellent guesswork going on. And if it does? Well – then Bucky would be able to feel as it squeezes his small shoulder, lingering, as Steve turns pink.

They’re celebrating Steve’s first true hunt: the first where he managed to put a crossbow bolt in a monster, killing it for good. They had fought a pack of giant centipedes: while Bucky had used his signs and his steel sword to do damage to them, he had sat in a tree, as usual, aiming at them from high up. They were much harder to hit, than a stationary bottle, especially when Bucky was leaping about and side-stepping at every turn.

But, in total, he had felled _three_ of the six. And so, he had taken a fifty-percent cut, at Bucky’s insistence, today. Bucky is using his to celebrate; Steve is using his much the same, only, he can put away a lot less alcohol than a highly-mutated and enhanced witcher.

But still – witcher or no, Bucky is tipsy. He seems happy; almost carefree, perhaps.

“. . . Thanks, for helpin’ me,” Steve tells him. Bucky looks down, at his companion, and sees that he’s being entirely genuine. “I like to think I can get by on my own. I’ve always thought that, but . . . This time – well. You know you’ve really helped me,” Steve says. Bucky nods; Steve feels his arm slip up, until it’s loosely slung around his neck, causally sitting there, resting, while Steve breaks into a nervous sweat. The chainmail feels a lot smoother than he’d imagined; it doesn’t catch on his skin, as he’d sometimes feared it would. He feels a lot smaller every time Bucky gets so close to him, but for some reason, for once, he doesn’t mind. He feels safe, and – he catches his own thoughts right there, and stops them dead. He just feels _safe_.

“It’s nothing you haven’t done for me,” Bucky confesses. “I . . . Owe everything I have, to other people,” He mentions. “Another witcher – he helped me escape from, uh – where I was before,” He says, looking around, in case they’re being listened to. No one is taking any interest, in a pair of monster hunters, sitting a little too close to one another at the bar; even the bartender isn’t interested, anymore, knowing they won’t need anything else for at least another little while, since they’ve gotten a fresh round of drinks in.

“And before that?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods, acknowledging the question.

“Before that, too. I – you know I struggle, to-” He taps his flesh fingers against his temple, in a pantomime gesture meaning _remember most of my life before I started monster hunting_. Steve nods, immediately catching his drift. He’s listened to enough cryptic half-stories, to know what he means, by now. He gets the feeling today’s retelling won’t be as steeped in metaphor, or lost in translation behind phrases too short, as his usual.

“. . . But. I saw a witch – for my arm,” He says. “I remembered – old friends. Friends I would have died for. They were – _there_. At that place. We were all gonna be experimented on. They chose me, to be first, because I-” He shakes his head, laughing bitterly. “I just . . . I wouldn’t stop talking shit. I was so quick to – to anger, then,” He recalls, voice regretful. “But I took it for them. For all of them,” He surmises.

“You – _deliberately_ antagonised the people that made you – this? To spare someone else?!” He gathers, tone incredulous. As if he doesn’t regularly put himself in the line of fire, for his own high-minded ideals, or downtrodden folk.

Bucky shrugs, his left arm rubbing against Steve as he does so, making Steve acutely aware of how close they are, yet again. He’s having the dawning realisation that he loves it. Not just _likes_ it, either, but _loves_ it.

“Don’t know about _spare_. I never saw them again,” He recounts.  
“Gods,” Steve mutters. “Hope they survived,”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, to that. He just takes another drink. Steve follows suit, not wanting to press the issue, and ruin Bucky’s mood.

“. . . I never had many friends, like that. I think it was just me and my ma, most of the time. My dad – I think he was a soldier. I barely even remember his face,” He comments. Bucky raises his eyebrows, looking down at Steve. He grips him a little tighter, for a second, before realising he’s in danger of hurting him, and relaxing. “I remember hers, though,” He mentions, referring to his mother. He takes another drink.

“They’re gone, now,” He adds. Bucky nods.  
“You talked about her. Last night,” Bucky brings up. Steve feels a little surprised, that Bucky caught that mention, and that he chose to file it away, even when he wasn’t feeling too great himself. Steve nods.  
“Don’t remember how they died. Only – waking up, somewhere else. It was-” He smiles, despite himself. “A witcher. He’d brought me to a doctor, in town near to mine. Told me my town had gone up in flames. With everyone in it,”  
“Except you,” Bucky says, and sips his ale.  
“Except me. He found me alive – said I was too – too stubborn, to let go,” He says, with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “. . . I think he was just glad to find _something_ still living, when he saw the whole place burned to hell,”  
“For what it’s worth – I’m glad it was you, he found,” Bucky says. Steve sighs.

“Thanks, Buck – but . . . Being the only one to survive,” He shakes his head, looking down at his own hands, where they grip into the metal flagon. “It’s tough,”  
“Yes. It is,” Bucky agrees, thinking again about his fellow prisoners; experimental subjects, long-gone, most likely. “. . . Did you ever go back home?” He asks

Steve shakes his head.  
“No point going back,” He says. “Nothing there for me, now. It’s ashes. Still is, far as I know. Blighted, the witcher called it . . . Nice guy, though,” He adds, before Bucky gets too mad, on his behalf.

Bucky nods. _Blighted_ means cursed. Not a good idea to go back. Not without _serious_ magical protection and warding.

“I’ve been on my own, since I left the orphanage. Just – thinking about what happened, that day. And why I cant remember it,” He tells Bucky, finally opening up about one of his many reasons for wanting to travel with Bucky. “Don’t know if I can trust anyone not to leave me alone, again,” He adds quietly.

“You know, Steve,” Bucky says, looking down and into his eyes: Steve can’t tear his gaze away, even as he watches Bucky’s eyes flick between looking into his right, and his left, with the closeness and the alcohol. “You’re stronger than you think. Braver, too,”  
“. . . Thanks, I guess,” Steve says, with an amused expression, despite the heavy subject matter.  
“But that witcher was right. You’re stubborn,” He adds. Steve scoffs, but Bucky continues: “It’s in your nature. You could do _anything_ , and you could do it all by yourself,” He opines.

Steve feels him bring his hand up to the back of his head, threading his fingers into Steve’s wild blond hair, and tilting his own head forward, until their foreheads are almost touching. Steve’s eyes are wide, now; Bucky’s face is a little blurry, but he can still make out the broad strokes. _Sincerity – even, or perhaps especially, when drunk_.

“But you don’t have to do everything on your own,”

Steve laughs quietly.  
“What? Because I’ve got you?” He asks, a little disbelieving that that’s where Bucky is going with this, but hoping against hope that it is anyway. His stomach flips, when Bucky nods:  
“That’s right. As long as you wanna stick with me – I’m sticking with you til the end, pal,”

Bucky squeezes the back of his neck, touching his forehead against Steve’s for the briefest of moments, before he pulls away, again. He still has his arm slung around Steve’s neck, but he’s a lot less close than before, just enjoying his drink, as if he hasn’t changed Steve’s whole world.

Steve’s even more acutely aware that he’s staring at Bucky than usual, this time. He blinks up at him, dazed: when Bucky looks down at him, there’s this – _affectionate_ look, in his eye. He’s completely disarmed, in that moment. He doesn’t know what to say. Except, maybe –

“. . . Thank you,” He says. “You too – if you’ll have me,” He adds, and although the words feel weird to say out loud, they’re no less heartfelt. He realises, in time, that Bucky near-enough told him out loud that he cares for him, this time.

Bucky raises his flagon in front of them.  
“To – absent friends,” He says.  
“Absent friends,” Steve concurs, touching Bucky’s flagon with his own. _And friends becoming something more,_ his brain supplies, as he desperately screams for it to shut the fuck up.

They both down their drinks, and Bucky orders two more.

“You ever learned how to play gwent?” Bucky asks Steve, as if they haven’t just made a deal to travel with one another for as long as they possibly can.  
“Yes,” Steve says, raising an eyebrow.  
“Then keep that shit to yourself,” He teases. “Look at these idiots,” Bucky says, indicating across the bar where, at the far end, there are a few tables of drunks playing the card game, arguing about little pictures of animals, or whatever the cards have on them. From Bucky’s face, Steve can tell that he doesn’t get the appeal.

“You sure you don’t want me to teach you? – Could be another thing to swindle someone with,” He jokes.  
“I didn’t swindle anyone!” Bucky insists, and Steve laughs. “I was just – very good at darts, today,”  
“And every day,” Steve adds. Bucky nods, conceding the point.  
“And every day,” He repeats, looking Steve directly in the eye as he sips his drink.

Steve watches him, as he uses his _igni_ sign to turn off the candles at the gwent players’ desks; the two of them watch, Steve laughing, as the players flounder to get them lit again, before Bucky turns them on again with a wave of his hand. He continues to wind them up like that for a few moments, leaving them crying drunkenly in the end that the inn must be haunted.

Tipsy as he is, Steve can’t help but laugh – and, watching his reaction the whole time, Bucky breaks into something like a laugh for the first time Steve’s seen, too.

He doesn’t know it’s the first time Bucky can remember genuinely, happily laughing, himself. He knows he owes it all to Steve – Steve brings out the humour in him, bringing forward the youth, perhaps, that he never got to live. Steve thinks he owes him something, but to him, it’s clear that he doesn’t – not a single thing.

The debt is paid, a thousand times over. Bucky’s got his own debts – but Steve owes him nothing.

And yet, Steve stays with him. And he stays with Steve. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my twitter: @luckycl0ve  
> my art tumblr: jaybrogers.tumblr.com
> 
> Art credit: me!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good afternoon!! Thanks for sticking around :^) 
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for: paranoia, discussion of abuse and coercion

_Past_

The bell rings out, the sound of it echoing around the room and down into the hidden chambers Bucky has no doubts reside deep within the heart of this particular establishment. It used to be part of an old castle: the servant’s quarters, and the dungeons, too, no doubt. Behind a beaded curtain – which, in all honesty, looks quite out of place amongst the grim grey stone that comprises the walls, floors and ceilings – the sound of the bell resonates, travelling far, far down.

There are magical items all around him: pieces of equipment, enchanted to measure exactly correct weights, and to work without fault, are displayed on various shelves. They sit alongside pots full of potions, ranging from the mundane to the exceedingly rare. His witcher senses are screaming, raising hairs all over his body, but he breathes through the sensation. He tamps it down, consciously, until it’s only a low ringing in his ears, just like the bell he’s just rung. He’s not in immediate danger, he doesn’t think. He’ll have to wait for the owner of this place.

And yet still, no one comes. Bucky gazes around: back at the open door through which he came, and down at the wooden counter, above which the bell hangs. It’s clearly to get the owner of the establishment’s attention. And then-

“Customer?” A slightly strained voice asks, echoing from far away. Bucky hears stumbling footsteps, righting themselves quickly – they draw nearer and nearer, ascending steps from some kind of lab no doubt, as Bucky listens. He rests his hand on one of the knives attached to his belt: he’s long since switched to carrying both of his swords on his back, for better access.

In addition, he has taken to wearing his cloak as more of a long shawl, draping it across his body and fastening it with a silver pin he picked up at a flea market. He bought it – one of his first ever purchases – with gold picked up from a few unfortunate dead townsfolk, fallen victim to a vengeful spirit amongst the farmlands, on his journey North. _Poor bastards_ – that’s what he’d thought initially. But then, they shouldn’t have robbed her grave, or kicked it down, as he came to find out they'd done. So not really.

He can no longer use the hood, with the fabric draped like this – but he can easily hide that one of his arms in a sling. That’s a benefit, at least. Plus, this way, the length looks intentional, rather than seeming outright to be too short, due to his removal of the strip of fabric for a makeshift sling around a week ago.

Since then, he’s been travelling dutifully north: killing monsters, harvesting their parts, and collecting the occasional bounty on the way. Usually, he’ll turn up to a town, already bearing the head or ashes of some creature or other that made the mistake of trying him: the townspeople will notice, direct him to their noticeboard, and he will direct himself to whoever posted the notice about _a ghost girl in the woods, couldn’t say why she’s there_ , or whatever it is, this time. Not at all suspicious.

He’s not seen a lot of the world, or of the ways of regular folk – regular humans, that is. But he knows enough to know that they are liars, and they hide things as if their lives depend on it. Usually, they do.

From the curtain, a man appears: he easily gets caught up in the beads, taking a moment to untangle himself in a way that makes Bucky raise one eyebrow, wondering if this can truly be the Apothecary that he was directed to by the people in the local tavern. Perhaps this is his assistant.

He has thick, curly black hair, which is greying; a white coat – the kind with buttons along the side, that does up all the way to the top. His buttons, however, are haphazardly done up about halfway, and each button looks as if it’s in the wrong hole. The coat is covered in stains of varying colours. No blood, though.

He knows that kind of coat well. He’s used to seeing it in a grey colour, pristine clean, up close – dirtied before his eyes, throughout whatever day or night he was unfortunate enough to be the subject of experimentations or enhancements – but this man . . . Looks completely different to what he’s expecting. To what he’s known of his profession, so far.

The man wipes his hands on his trousers, tidying himself up, before straightening; he pulls up the heavy-duty goggles he's wearing onto his forehead, and rubs his eyes, as he makes his way tiredly behind the desk.  
“How can I help you?” He asks wearily, but not unkindly. He sniffs; yawns. He hasn’t even looked at Bucky in the face, yet.

Without a word, Bucky dumps a huge sack on the counter. The man jumps, eyes widening. Finally, he looks at Bucky, and his eyebrows climb impossibly higher up his face.

Bucky knows this routine – he’s experienced it enough, from random travellers, and townspeople, to courtiers back in the Imperial City. He knows, intimately, the revulsion that comes next. But, with this man, he feels more anticipation for the opposite reaction – at the idea that he will be enraptured, enthralled, want to keep Bucky as part of some private collection, just like the King’s Apothecary did.

_What if he decides he wants to keep you? Use you, like these monster parts? Perhaps this one is more into keeping his specimens untouched, and in mint condition. Maybe you’ll be lucky that way. Or maybe he has even worse ideas of what to do to you than the King’s man did._

“Holy shit!” The man says, almost breathless. Bucky steels himself yet again.  
“You the Apothecary in this town?” He asks gruffly.  
“I mean – yes, by trade – we use the word _doctor_ , around here, though,” The man replies.

Bucky gulps, trying to hide his fear. He has heard enough of people’s opinions of the Empire, this side of the border, that he knows that slipping up in his language and terminology could be enough for him to have to engage in a fight with just about anyone. He’d walk away bloody, from most – but with an Apothecary, with their potions, and experiments, and machinations . . . There’s no guarantee he’d walk away at all. He could make him take one, probably. He's been made to take things before. He doesn’t know how, but they’re manipulative, and cunning, so he will never underestimate one.

Just walking in here took all of his courage.

“Doctor,” Bucky says, sounding it out. He looks down at the bag.  
“Banner,” The doctor adds. “May I?”

Bucky nods slightly, watching as he dives carefully but enthusiastically into the bag.

He pulls out a bunch of drowner fingers, tied together:  
“You got quite the collection, didn’t you?” He says reverently. Bucky gets the impression he doesn’t really need an answer.

“Wow,” The doctor adds, looking and sounding genuinely breath-taken, as he pulls a whole, intact manticore skull from the bag, “How would you even go about – about _getting_ something like this?!” He asks, clearly impressed. He looks up from where he’s been carefully examining the skull, and into Bucky’s eyes. Bucky watches him like he’s about to lunge at him, and bite clean through his jugular vein.

He casts his mind back. _Manticore – a pack of them. But just one in particular was stuck in a farmer’s small-game trap. A noble beast, trapped by something so physically small, but not in any way less dangerous and confining. On its knees, in need of help, though it could lash out at him at any second. It reminded him of himself._

_He freed it. He tracked it, to a den, where it’s brothers and sisters lurked, and greeted it with licks for its wounds and roars in his direction. But when he stooped, to pick up the skull of one of their less fortunate kin, they didn’t object to him taking it. He picked up a few shed horns, a few old bones, and left._

“Carefully,” He answers.  
“I’ll bet!” He answers, looking a little fearful, as he looks down at the skull again. “And the bones . . . And . . . God, is this – are these griffin feathers?” He asks, equally impressed.

Bucky’s face softens, as he looks down at the sleek, black, gold-tipped feathers. Taken from a griffin’s nest. He thought of Sam, that day; thought of how the dark red, black and gold would look nice against his dark complexion, if he ever had a mind to incorporate them into his armour, or his cloak. _Representative of his witcher school._

“Yes. Adult male,” He says softly, with his remembrance.  
“How the . . .” The doctor trails off. “This is – an amazing haul,” He says, shaking his head as he examines some nightwraith rags with painstaking care.  
“I was told you would pay well,” Bucky mentions, keeping his voice low, and even.

Doctor Banner snaps out of his wonderment, and looks up at his face:  
“Yes! Yes – gods, yes,” He says, laying the rags down quickly with the myriad other specimens. There are more things than he can innumerate at this point, and clearly, that’s a very exciting prospect to him. He makes for a draw beneath the counter, taking a heavy, complicated-looking set of keys from around his neck. He sets about unlocking it, using several of the stranger-shaped keys.

“And what if I didn’t want coin?” Bucky asks.

The doctor pauses, looking genuinely confused, as he regards Bucky.  
“Uh . . . Money’s all I got for you. Unless you want a sleeping draught? Or something for – uh – burning when you pee. That kinda thing,” He mentions, with an embarrassed little laugh. “But I don’t think you want potions,”  
“No potions,” Bucky confirms adamantly.

The man straightens. His smile fades; he takes in Bucky’s countenance; the way he holds himself so stiffly, both hands beneath his cloak, though he can’t know from looking that one is in a sling, and not operational. He glances down at the monster parts, and back up, returning Bucky’s intense gaze. His eyes narrow, slightly, all traces of happiness gone in an instant.

“. . . What have you heard about me, witcher?” He enquires, voice lower, now. Bucky appraises his change of stance – and, as he suspected, this man is not exempt from the secrets all men keep.  
“That you have a great mind,” He recounts. The doctor shifts, slightly, on his feet. “I was hoping for information,” He elaborates.

He watches as the other man relaxes, if only fractionally.

“What kind of information?” He asks. All signs of the slightly bumbling, affable persona he had earlier are gone. Bucky doesn’t think they were an act, however – merely that he clearly has a lot of cards he has to play close to his chest, that he can’t risk giving away, by being anything less than perfectly careful. He knows what that is like. And he's seen enough fools playing gwent in taverns to know that not everyone is as good at it as he, himself, is.   
“Looking for a sorceress,” Bucky tells him.  
“A witch,” The doctor says, raising an eyebrow. Bucky licks his lips – yet again, terminology from conversations overheard during his days at court slips into his vocabulary. He’s not exactly a conversationalist, at this stage of enjoying his freedom, but the few words he uses need to be _better_. He’s giving himself away, easily, and the doctor knows it. Once is an accident, twice is – in a land where the Empire is hated – too many times.

“. . . There are a lot of them, around here. You took their land,” The doctor says, and there’s an undercurrent of hostility in his voice.  
“I’m not with the Empire,” Bucky denies quickly.  
“You talk like you are,” The doctor points out, and he’s not wrong, but Bucky can’t help but lash out.  
“And you’re afraid of witchers,” He retorts.  
“Isn’t everybody?” The doctor snaps, short fuse fraying, now that he realises where this particular customer hails from.

Bucky looks down sharply. When he raises his head again, he fixes the doctor with a gaze that tries to show him that, deep down, he doesn’t mean any harm to anyone who would defy the men that have ruined his life, thus far.

“Maybe. But a witcher from the King’s Court never travels this far alone without an escort,” Bucky points out.

The doctor folds his arms.  
“How do I know the Bitter March aren’t waiting outside to slap manacles on me for daring to help the people around here to survive?” He asks.  
“I’m not with them. I’m alone. And I need your help. You can have all the parts – I don’t care. Don’t have an Apothecary to take them back to. I’ve honestly had enough of your kind for my entire life,” He says bluntly.  
“And what about your kind? Witchers from across the border. Burning villages. Killing children,” He says, looking angrier; his eyes have a wild glint in them, as he points a finger square at Bucky’s chest. “I’ve heard they don’t have souls. And when you’ve seen the aftermath they’ve left, you’d believe it,”

Bucky looks down sharply, again. His hand flexes, where it rests on his hunting knife. He takes a moment, to absorb the doctor’s words: they hang in the air, weighing on him, rattling around his mind like dice being shaken. Every word, a chance at cracking him open completely.

He takes a deep breath, and lowers his guard, slightly. He removes his hand from his cloak, and lays it on the counter; a gesture of faith, that the other isn’t going to hurt him. He wishes it would stop shaking.

“. . . I don’t do that anymore,” He murmurs. “I’d never have chosen any of it,” He admits, though it does nothing for his perception as a credible threat that shouldn’t be crossed.

The doctor shifts, lowering his hands. He looks down at the selection of monster parts Bucky has brought him: it’s impressive, for sure. There’s no way, truly, that the Empire wouldn’t want a bevy this big, for their own potions, for their own wounded armies and wine-addled rich alike. Some of the ingredients here, he knows, are definitely used in the Trial of the Grasses, though the exact concoction is disputed – one of the reasons for the variable success rate of witcher creation.

But everyone knows the King and his Apothecary meddle with the bodies and mutations of witchers. He looks up, again, taking in Bucky’s appearance: the dark shadows under his eyes; the way he’s dressed, hiding his armour and weaponry. The yellow of his eyes – standard for witchers – framed by silver-white hair that is not.

He hasn’t heard tales of a white-haired witcher killing anyone. Perhaps no one lived to tell any tales. Or perhaps the Apothecary at the King’s court has perfected potions that can control even proud beasts, shaped like men though they are, to do his bidding even as their own minds protest.

Perhaps he’s not looking at a perpetrator of war crimes. Perhaps he’s looking at an unwilling participant. A victim, even. 

Doctor Banner sighs, and runs his hand through his hair. That wild glint is gone from his eyes, when Bucky braces himself to look into them.

“A witch,” He surmises, giving in.  
“. . . Called Nat,” Bucky adds.

Not for the first time, the doctor’s eyebrows raise.  
“Where did you hear about her?” He asks, tone shocked. How in the hell someone from the Imperial City could know her by that name, he has no idea.  
“Another witcher,” Bucky replies, “- _not_ one from the court. The Falcon,” He clarifies quickly, wanting to dissociate himself from the bad deeds of his brethren, even though there are few other witchers remaining at court.

“Sam?” Doctor Banner asks. This time, it’s Bucky’s turn to look surprised. “How the hell is he? Haven’t seen him since he was gonna chance the journey across the border-” The doctor says, then pauses – Bucky watches the colour drain from his face. “-he didn’t go to the King's Court, did he?!” He asks apprehensively.  
“He escaped. We both did,” Bucky recounts simply. The doctor breathes a sigh of relief.

“I’ll pour one out for him tonight,” He mutters. “. . . For both of you, maybe,” He adds, conceding the point that perhaps, Bucky isn’t so bad, after all, if he dared to escape from one of the most dangerous places in the world for a witcher. “What do you want Nat for?”  
“Need help with my – body,” Bucky says, his speech stilted “Not in the way you help,” He adds, though the concept of an Apothecary – a _doctor_ – helping people, instead of hurting them, is very new to him. If he was ever helped or cured of anything by the King’s Apothecary, then he has no memory of it.

The doctor looks him up and down; his eyes linger on the area of his cloak under which his metal arm sits. He doesn’t comment on it.

He rubs his eyes, yet again.  
“. . . Maybe I overreacted. I know they do – _stuff_ , to witchers. Bad stuff. To their bodies, and their brains. But I’ve heard stuff about the Bitter March, and seen worse, in my line of work, and around here. You gotta understand that,”

Bucky just nods. He understands better than anyone.

“I’ll tell you where she is. But I’m not sending you there without at least some of this stuff,” He says, indicating Bucky’s haul of monster parts. Bucky raises an eyebrow, surprised. “She needs this kind of stuff, too. And ever since the Bitter March – well,” He shrugs. “Hard to find people who can collect them. Not many witchers brave enough to work near the border, nowadays. Afraid to get snatched up by-”  
“The King,” Bucky finishes bluntly. The doctor shrugs, as if to say, _there you have it_. Bucky lets him know: “. . . They prefer to take children. Easier to-” _Tame. Control. Manipulate. Ruin._ “. . . Train,”

The doctor watches his face carefully; sees the way his brow furrows with regret, and clearly with remembrance of some awful past the doctor could never imagine.

“. . . I hope that whatever you do, you kill whoever made you make that face. And that maybe I’m there, when you do,” Doctor Banner says. Bucky’s eyebrows raise, not even realising he had been making _a face_ at all. The doctor goes for his coin yet again, telling Bucky, “For the journey. When you get there, just be sure you let her know I'm the reason you still have parts for her,” He mentions, with a wry smile.  
“I will,” Bucky says solemnly, not quite reading the tone he’s using; he’s looking for more of a jovial nod, than a blood-oath, here.

The doctor hands him golden coins – _lots_ of them. He wasn’t kidding, about the scarcity of these items, especially now.  
“Too much,” Bucky says, shaking his head – he takes some of his own coin from a pouch on his belt beneath his cloak, and goes to drop silver coins into the doctor’s hand.

He withdraws his hand, as if he’s afraid to be branded. Bucky blinks, as the silver coins land on the counter. He looks up, slowly, at the doctor’s wide eyes, apprehensive again. There’s a look in his eyes that Bucky recognises, from ponds; from dark windows; from polished silver mirrors in tavern rooms. Animalistic fear.

 _And there it is_. Yet another reason he’s so afraid of witchers.

Bucky feels the weight of his silver sword against his back, keenly, as his witcher senses tell him to use it to attack with extreme prejudice. But he won’t. Not everyone who isn’t human is a monster. And not everyone human isn’t a monster, either. He knows that well, by now.

“. . . Don’t, uh . . .” The doctor says, awkwardly, knowing full-well that Bucky knows what he is. He clearly can’t decide whether to end his sentence with _tell anyone_ , or _kill me_.  
“I won’t,” Is Bucky’s answer, to both. “No need,”

Doctor Banner nods, breathing a sigh of relief. He nods, at Bucky, and it’s almost a _thank you_. Maybe, now, he’ll truly believe that Bucky doesn’t belong amongst the ranks of the Bitter March; that he’s genuinely reticent about his actions, beyond his control or not.

“I’ll get you one of my maps,” The doctor says, changing the topic swiftly. “It should help you. It’s a day or two’s ride, or five day’s walk, given the terrain,” He estimates. “For humans, anyway,” He adds, after a moment’s thought.  
“Thank you,” Bucky says, and starts to apportion half of the spoils from his sack of monster parts, putting some back in the bag for the witch.  
“. . . And be sure to come back, if you have any more of this stuff going spare. I’m the only doctor folks around here got, so I need all the help I can get. I can pay,” He adds.

Bucky finds that he cares less and less about money, the more he has of it; he wants to give more and more away, the more he indulges in simple pleasures like swimming in ponds, and drying himself off in the morning sun. He’s seen what people with huge hordes of gold are like: cruel, with rancid souls, bejewelled clothes never compensating for a moral bankruptcy they failed to acknowledge right after their corrupt King ensured they would never fear financial bankruptcy. Even this side of the border, he has seen that rich families, who have the gall to call themselves _nobles_ , will turn a blind eye or to even revel in cruelty, so long as they can strike a deal with the King to keep their lands and assets when he launches a full-scale invasion at some far-off point in the future. 

Bucky shouldn’t be profiting off the misfortune or illnesses of common folks. He’ll accept the pay he needs, whatever they want to give, and not a penny more.

“I’ll come back,” Bucky promises.  
“I think that you will,” The doctor says thoughtfully, as he begins to help him sort through the monster parts, and divide them up between them.

 _I have to make sure no other witchers kill this doctor_ , Bucky thinks to himself, considering how, in the time that he’s been here, he’s not had a potion forced down his throat; not been hurt, not been captured, added to some collection of curiosities, or vivisected. He’s been treated as an equal, and argued with like one, too, rather than spoken down to like some scorned child, or a kicked pet.

He could grow to like that, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my twitter: @luckycl0ve  
> my art tumblr: jaybrogers.tumblr.com


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday folks!! Preparing this chapter in advance as I'm away this weekend :D 
> 
> I've started adding my art to the ends of some of the previous chapters, and will do so going forward for other chapters, too 😎
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for: violence plus minor injuries and their treatment

_Present_

Bucky watches Steve eat in the mid-morning sun. Steve isn’t looking directly at him, but even with his bad eyes, he can tell Bucky is staring at him with something he’d hesitantly term _affection_. Perhaps something a little more – but maybe that’s just Steve’s imagination running wild. Or, again, it could be his bad eyesight. _Perhaps they’re conspiring together_.

Steve scoops up his cereal, acutely aware of how Bucky’s yellow eyes follow his spoon from the bowl to his mouth. He’s got his face resting on his flesh hand, staring at Steve from where he sits beside him, wedged up to Steve in a way that doesn’t feel too intrusive – just that he’s . . . _There._ He feels like he’s there, and Steve likes that. And not just because of the weekday morning inn clientele, who have nowhere else to go and nothing else to do but stir up trouble, and who are surreptitiously watching them both almost as closely as Bucky's watching Steve.

Steve ignores them, as his peripheral vision dances, imagining longing in Bucky’s eyes. When he turns his head, Bucky’s eyes flick quickly down to the cereal, but not so fast that Steve doesn't catch it. Steve sighs.  
“You wanna eat upstairs?” He asks, knowing that if Bucky were hungry, he wouldn’t want to eat in front of anyone other than Steve, at a push. Bucky shakes his head.  
“Ate before sunrise,” He tells him. It’s winter, now: the sun rises late, and Steve with it. They’ve been travelling for a long, long time. Bucky has told him they’ll get to a nicer city soon, the way they’re heading, where they can both stop and rest for slightly longer before heading off again. Steve appreciates the thought, but doesn’t mind the grind, truly: this is what he wanted, and he’s getting it. And Bucky’s company, with it. What more could he want?

“Good,” Steve comments contentedly, before turning back to his meal. He scoops the last of his cereal up, and sets the bowl to one side, using a napkin to dab at his face in a way that’s so at odds with Steve’s scrappy nature that Bucky can’t help but smirk. Steve shoots him a look.  
“I know you weren’t raised in a barn,” Steve tells him, eyeing him pointedly – but he can’t help but smile, despite himself.

Suddenly, a figure looms over them: a tall man in a dark cloak stands there, and from the gap in the cloak, they can both make out rough leather armour, though it looks to be in good condition. The man himself, when Steve looks up, is looking between them with dark, dangerous eyes. Steve regards his pointed features, his obvious arsenal of weapons, and the small scars on his face, and knows that he’s a mercenary.

 _Guess that’s what I am, too,_ Steve realises, when he considers that. He hadn’t thought of it that way, before. But with him, the other patrons don’t turn away, minding their own business. For this man, they all do.

“Witcher,” He says. Bucky has already sat up straight, composed, by the time Steve looks back to him. He must have regained that composure in an instant, the second someone who looked as if he could handle himself appeared in front of them, quickly pretending as if he doesn’t go soft as soon as he thinks it’s just him and Steve.

Steve sets his jaw, and eyes the man with suspicion. A lot of conversations that start like that nowadays end with him trying to kick someone’s ass, for saying some shit about Bucky, and his kind. It’s not his fault he was made into a witcher. And it’s _not_ his fault that the King has used witchers to decimate the population of hundreds of towns this side of the border. But he’ll get caught up in all that nastiness, anyway, Steve knows by now. Given that he used to live – _well, was held captive_ – at the King’s Court, for so long, and was forced into murders he didn’t want to commit, Bucky finds it difficult to deny his involvement outright. That inevitably leads to a fight, and them being kicked out of whatever inn they’re in. Steve won’t say he doesn’t find it to be worth it, for Bucky’s honour, though.

Bucky nods once. Steve imagines he’d prefer to be wearing his armour, right now, if this is a client: after all, unlike Steve, most people wouldn’t be able to read _competence_ and _strength_ in even fibre of his being, without it. They can’t see how powerful he truly is, for some reason, when he’s wearing his favourite dark blue undershirt with the deep neckline that always makes Steve’s eyes wander, and has Steve’s charcoal about his eyes, for the third time this week. Any person that doesn’t see him as the picture of strength dressed as he is now, painted eyes and scars on display, is a fool. Clearly he has bravery in spades, to present as he likes, at all times. He won’t make any concessions for traditional masculinity, when he doesn’t even identify with it.

But, still – they only came downstairs so Steve could get his breakfast, and they each intended to relax while he did so. They didn’t think a client would come to them, at this time of day, and in this inn, rather than just posting on the noticeboard.

The man drops a hefty bag of coin on the table, where it lands with a loud thud; it draws the eyes of several patrons, ogling the generous size of it, before they catch sight of Bucky and the other man, and quickly avert their eyes, lest they attract their ire. Steve is under no illusion that he’s part of the equation, when it comes to their intimidation.

“Ghoul. Forest on the north side of town,” The stranger says gruffly.

Bucky holds his gaze, not moving for a moment.  
“Name?” He asks.  
“Rollins,” The man tells him. Bucky nods once, eyeing the man’s face closely, for another moment.  
“That’s a lot for one ghoul,” Bucky comments. Steve just nods in agreement, not wanting to intervene with how Bucky does business, this time.  
“I’ll do a lot better business, once it’s gone,” Rollins reasons, voice flat. “Today,” He commands.  
“And when it’s done?” Bucky asks. “What trophy do you want as proof?”

Rollins looks from Bucky, to Steve: he looks him up and down, and a hint of a smirk pulls at his features, as Steve scowls back at him.  
“No trophy. I trust the word of a witcher,” He says. “Not many do anymore. But I’ve heard you’re good at getting out of tough situations,”

Finally, Bucky reaches out, and slides the gold towards Steve, without breaking eye contact with Rollins.  
“We’ll do it,” He assures him. “By sundown,”

Rollins nods and, just as quickly as he arrived, skulks out of the inn, cloak billowing behind him. Steve looks down at the pouch of gold, and up at Bucky, who stares at the doorway where Rollins just left with a frown.  
“. . . Didn’t wanna stick around, did he,” Steve points out.  
“No,” Bucky murmurs in agreement. Steve looks at him – he reaches out, and puts his hand on Bucky’s flesh hand, where it rests on the table. Bucky doesn’t flinch: he just looks down at Steve, and into his eyes.  
“Are you sure about this?” Steve asks. He’s not an expert, by any means – but as the number of monsters he’s seen Bucky fight, and helped him kill, edges closer to triple figures, he feels like he’s getting a better nose for things that don’t smell right.  
“Ghouls set people on edge,” Bucky tells him, moving his hand so it’s on top of Steve’s and squeezing. Steve’s eyes widen minutely, before he schools his expression, trying not to consider how Bucky just a few months ago would’ve snatched his hands away, and probably tried to hit Steve on reflex, in the same position as they’re in now.

“They’re necrophages. They look like people. Could be someone he knows – knew,” He corrects himself.

Steve nods slowly, not having considered that before. He takes one last look at the bag of coin, and sighs.  
“That’d be pretty awful,” He concedes. “To see someone you know, but they’re not themselves, anymore,”

Bucky just nods. He doesn’t say anything more about it.

* * *

They set out after midday, travelling by foot to the forests north of the town they were in: as the day clouds over, Bucky gets the impression that it will rain, soon. He hopes to have this hunt wrapped up before then.

Beside him, approaching the edge of the forest, Steve is nervous. He never likes the monsters that look humanoid: spirits, and the like. He’s never seen a ghoul, before, but he bets he’ll like it even less, given that from Bucky’s accounts, they eat human flesh alive. They walk on two feet, or all fours, and they usually move in packs, according to what Bucky has told him. It is a little strange, by his own admission, that this one seems to have struck out alone.

But, then again – with the worsening of the invasion of the Empire across the border, and more sightings and chilling tales of the Bitter March, the more bodies stack up. And the more bodies there are, the more necrophages they have to kill, to protect the living. Steve knows Bucky feels guilty about it: he always has this sombre look on his face, as he applies the necrophage oil to his silver sword, before a hunt, as if he could do _anything_ to stop the Bitter March on his own.

He’s not completely on his own, though – he’s still got Steve. _Til the end_ , Steve reminds himself, fond of that particular tipsy memory.

As they approach a signpost, on the edge of the woods, Bucky stops: Steve doesn’t run into him, this time, given that they fall in step more often than not, now. He immediately stops beside him, however, shifting his crossbow in his grip. He’s oiled the tips of the bolts in necrophage oil, just in case.

Bucky is staring hard, at the sign: from twenty paces, Steve can just about make out that it’s directing them back to the town, two miles back; to the next town, ten miles away, through the forest. But it’s obscured by . . . _Something_.

Bucky steps up to it, slower now, approaching almost furtively. Steve falls in beside him, unsure of what Bucky can see that’s leaving him so hesitant.

But as they draw closer, it doesn’t make any more sense, to Steve: there, on the sign, are . . . _Pieces of raw meat?_

Atop the sign sit several large, fresh-looking steaks, that Steve could imagine cooking up for a hearty dinner. They don’t look torn into, or left carelessly, as if a beast had left them there. Something about it looks . . . Purposeful. And when he turns to Bucky, looking up at his face, he can see that his assessment is likely correct.

His eyes have screwed up in confusion, mouth hanging slightly open; he frowns down at the meat, shaking his head slightly.  
“. . . Someone trying to lure the ghoul here?” Steve asks. He takes a few steps towards the treeline, and looks up: there certainly aren’t any creatures, up there, besides the birds. When he looks into the forest proper, his eyes can’t make out any movement; any shapes, that scream _beast_. He turns back to Bucky, when he doesn’t answer, after a minute or two.

Bucky shakes his head a little more: he takes a few seconds, reaching out to the steaks on the sign, preparing to speak, as he goes to touch it.

Suddenly, Steve feels himself pulled from behind: all the air is unceremoniously shunted from his chest, as he’s thrown through the air, and lands tumbling on the ground, head over heels, crossbow flying from his grip. He’s winded, as he rolls across the forest floor, coming to a sudden stop against the roots of a tree. His ankle blossoms in pain from the awkward landing, and he just _knows_ he’s going to let Bucky down, now, and hold him back – even before he knows that he’s in danger of much more than that, right now.

When he opens his eyes, there’s a great beast in front of him: the same that grabbed him by his shirt, and flung him deep into the forest, before chasing it's catch, ready to overwhelm and eat him.

When Steve looks up at it’s snarling face, he sees it is that of a man: the eyes of a man, the face of a man, and the sharp, overgrown teeth of a beast. It’s larger than a human, on all fours, with unnaturally long, angular legs, pacing up to him, and rearing up to bear down on him. He can see tattered clothes still clinging to it: a black cloth shirt, and black trousers, but its clawed feet have long since punctured through and ravaged any boots it may have had.

It shrieks at him, and he only has a second to duck away from its clawed hands, before it tries to strike: but it’s blown to one side, suddenly, by a quick blast of force from one side. Steve gasps, unable to calculate what’s happening, for a second, before he catches sight of Bucky with his metal hand outstretched.

 _Aard_. A small, telekinetic blast – yet another sign in a witcher’s arsenal, that his mother had told him about as a boy. He didn’t know, really, that Bucky could use any signs other than _igni_ , for fire, or _yrden_ , for trapping spirits. Perhaps he doesn’t like to use them. But, all the same, he just used it, for Steve.

When the creature scrambles back to its hind feet, Steve has a courtside seat for the expression Bucky makes when he sees it head on: his determined expression, teeth gritted and eyes wild with rage at what it just did to Steve, and the fact he was distracted enough to let it, drops away completely. It’s as if his head has emptied out, and his facial expressions went with his thoughts, draining completely.

Then, it is replaced by a more intense version of the face Steve had seen when Bucky had been regarding the meat on the sign. Steve feels his own eyes widen, watching it: Bucky's jaw drops, and his eyes are like saucers; his surprise turns to anguish, and hideous, dawning realisation. He shakes his head, slightly, and Steve knows that it’s not for anyone’s benefit. Just his body reacting, to what his mind is telling him can’t possibly be true, but that he's unavoidably seeing.

But then the creature lunges at him and, true to form, Bucky doesn’t let his emotions get the better of him: Steve watches him grit his teeth, again, and engage it. His sword slashes, and swoops, dancing that same deadly dance as always. Steve is mesmerised, as usual, and would be reaching for his sketchbook, if he wasn’t in such mortal danger. But right now, he knows that if Bucky is as anguished as he looked for a moment, there, then he’s going to need Steve’s help.

He looks around frantically, and sees his crossbow nearby: dragging himself by his fingers across the many roots of the tree beneath him, using them as handholds, he edges towards it, continuously checking back to see if Bucky is winning the fight. From what Steve can see, it looks evenly matched. He’d even say the creature looks too human, for what it is; the movements, and the ways it dodges Bucky’s attacks, are . . . _Calculated_ , like it knows what he’s going to do.

Finally, Steve’s fingers brush against the varnished wood of his crossbow, and he snatches it up. It’s not an ideal stance to shoot from, he’s fully aware, but given that he doesn’t think he could stand right now with his ankle throbbing even while lying down as he is, it’ll have to do.

He watches, fumbling for a necrophage-oil-tipped bolt, as the creature knocks Bucky back and to the ground: he tries using _igni_ on it, but ghouls don’t much care about brief bursts of flame, it turns out. It looms over Bucky, snapping its teeth at him, as he yells out with the effort of holding his sword to it, barring it from biting his neck out. Steve can’t bring himself to regret that Bucky shows his emotions, now, around him – but that one moment of hurt, that one _error_ , may have cost them dearly, this time.

Steve loads the bolt. He aims. He breathes. He counts to three. And he squeezes the trigger.

It goes off, hitting the creature square in the back, right between the shoulder-blades: where previously it was pinning Bucky, it sits up, whipping around to scream and look at Steve with feral, enraged eyes. That’s the opening Bucky needs to take his silver sword in hand, and cut it’s head clean off.

The head rolls to one side, as its red-black blood flies out, spraying Bucky as the body slumps partially across him. Steve’s eyes are wide as he watches Bucky frantically scramble out from under it, sitting up on his arms, and looking to Steve, panicked eyes asking silently if he’s okay.

Steve breathes a shaky sigh of relief, and nods. _Thanks to you_.

Bucky looks back at the ghoul, sitting up gradually, and looking at the head, which lies between Steve and himself: he shuffles towards it, across the forest floor, and kneels there, just looking at it with that same tormented gaze.

“. . . Bucky?” Steve asks, shifting, and sitting up – he curses, faltering slightly with a wince of pain, as he realises he’s in pain from his back. The adrenaline of the situation had been masking his pain, at a gouge in his back, that he’d sustained when the creature had grabbed and thrown him. He’d assumed, before, that it had just grabbed his shirt, rather than rending his skin.

His noise of pain draws Bucky’s disturbed gaze: he snaps out of his clearly arduous thoughts, and stands, making his way quickly over to Steve.  
“Where?” He asks quickly, crouching down beside Steve.  
“My ankle,” Steve says, highlighting what he considers to be the biggest problem first – his inability to walk. “And my back,”

Bucky takes his shoulder in his hand, and moves in close to him, looking over his shoulder and to the wound on his back. Steve relishes the closeness, for a moment, as Bucky hums, sympathising with his pain.  
“I – I’m sorry, Steve,” He says, as he pulls back. He hasn’t lost that wild quality to his eyes, yet, perhaps still in shock.  
“It’s fine – it’s fine. I’ve had way worse,” Steve reassures him, putting his hands gently on Bucky’s shoulders in a way that doesn’t go unnoticed by the witcher, but that he doesn’t react to, really, simply lost in thought about what just happened, and Steve’s injuries, at that moment.

“You can’t walk like this,” Bucky assesses, knowing Steve wouldn’t be making a fuss at all if that weren’t the case. Steve nods, and shrugs, knowing there’s not much to do about it now. Bucky shakes himself, and – _ever so gently, but quickly enough that Steve doesn’t have time to complain_ – slips his metal arm under Steve’s knees, and his flesh one behind Steve’s back, dutifully avoiding his injury, before lifting him from the forest floor.

Steve’s eyes, wide with the display of strength and care, look all around, as if hunting for witnesses. He can’t believe this is Bucky’s first solution, to this particular problem – carrying him bridal-style for the two miles to the nearest town to get help - but no one is around to see it, right now, so perhaps he’s dreaming.

“. . . Thank you, Buck,” He says, uncharacteristically stowing his pride, this time, because he knows that Bucky isn’t in a state right now to argue with him about how best to get him away from this forest. He focusses on the noise of Bucky’s steady footsteps, as they take them away from this place.

“Bucky – what happened?” He asks quietly, still slightly breathless. He manages to catch Bucky’s eye, with significant effort. As he looks back, Steve can see how truly shaken he is.  
“. . . I know – I-” He shakes his head, and takes one last look back at the body of the ghoul. “I knew him,”

Steve just stares. They’re silent, for the rest of the walk back to town.

* * *

Steve’s on their bed, pillow propping up his ankle, before Bucky talks again.

He enters their room, where Steve has been sketching, having gone out into the night for medical supplies: Steve can see he’s clutching onto a couple bottles of something or other, and a couple of rolls of fresh bandages, so clearly he was successful. His eyes, however, are still haunted.

Steve sets his sketch aside, and watches as Bucky rounds the bed, taking a look at his ankle; he takes in how pale Steve looks. Steve’s aware of it, himself, currently living with the reality of being in pain whenever he lies on his back, due to the gouging injury there from the ghoul’s claws. At least drawing has been a good distraction, from it; a good way to work through what he’s seen, today.

Bucky sits down on the bed beside Steve's legs, and appraises his injured ankle: it’s bruised, from where he landed on it, but he worked out earlier that it isn’t broken. It just needs to be elevated, and compressed with a dressing. His eyes flick up to Steve’s, asking for permission to touch. Steve sets his jaw, and nods, bracing himself for the pain. Bucky’s hands, metal though one is, are gentle – but as they set to work bandaging, he can’t avoid making Steve wince.

“There’s pain reliver in the green bottle,” Bucky tells him shortly. Steve watches the way his hands linger, as he passes the bandage back and forth between them, making sure to keep the foot secure and in place as he does so. Steve bites his lip.  
“ _You_ won’t ever take any,” Steve mentions. Bucky looks up at him, for a second – Steve’s too tired and worn, to sulk. He’s just pointing out the contradiction, this time.  
“I’m not human,” Bucky points out tiredly. He’s calmed down significantly, since Steve saw him rush off, as if the medical supplies he sought would save Steve’s life, rather than just ease his pain.  
“You still deserve to be comfortable,” Steve counters, voice earnest.

Bucky ties off the bandage, and sighs. He shuts his eyes, for a moment, and Steve notices his flesh hand is shaking, now. He reaches out, and takes it. Bucky opens his eyes, to look at their fingers, where they interlock.  
“Do you want to tell me about him?” Steve asks. Bucky remains silent, and still, for a minute or two.  
“. . . I’ll tell you,” He answers, finally, his voice hoarse. Steve nods, not wanting to rush him. “But – your back. We need to _disinfect_ ,” He says. Steve bites his lip, casting his mind back to a hazy, vague memory of how badly it used to sting when his mother would do the same for his grazed knees, when he was a boy. He agrees, all the same, however.

“How do you want me?” He asks softly. Bucky looks at their bed, and back at Steve’s face, for a moment, eyes lingering on him. He seems lost, considering the question, for an amount of time that neither of them would really be able to quantify if pressed. They’re each considering the wording, lost in their examination of one another’s equally careful expressions.  
“. . . Shirt off. Lie on your front,” He instructs finally. Steve does as he says, for once without any complaining, or smart comments.

The cold of the night air makes his hairs stand on end, and he doubts his bare torso looks any better to Bucky than the plucked corpses of geese he could buy at market. But Bucky looks, anyway, guiding Steve into position almost tenderly, making sure his ankle isn’t contacted by anything as he changes position.

The sheet is mostly soft against Steve’s cheek, as he feels Bucky’s eyes on him: he hears him uncork a bottle.  
“This will hurt,” He murmurs superfluously. Steve just nods, and readies himself.

He hisses, when the salve hits his torn skin, via a soaked rag: Bucky works slowly, meticulously, making sure the wound is clean at least, in case infection sets in.  
“Do ghouls carry infection?” Steve wonders aloud. He feels Bucky pause, for a second, before continuing.  
“Men do,” He says, voice gravelly. “. . . He could’ve picked it up, where we were – or at any time since,” He says.

Steve waits for a long while, before Bucky speaks, again:  
“He was – one of the men. One of the ones I volunteered in place of. One of the others, that were going to be experimented on, back in the Imperial City,” He clarifies. “One of the other subjects – prisoners,”

Steve twists his neck, to see Bucky, where he’s working: his yellow eyes are rimmed with red, and he won’t make eye contact.  
“How was he – how could it have been him? It was years and years ago, right?” Steve asks, incredulously, voice light and quiet as summer rain.  
“I recognised his face – his hands, his build,” He says. “It was – it was _Dum Dum_ , alright,” He says, and even though his voice is thick with sadness, Steve detects the bitter-sweetness of being able to recall his friend’s nickname, once more.  
“I’m not saying it wasn’t,” Steve says, turning back to put his cheek against the sheets, eyes straining to keep Bucky in view, still.  
“. . . I never knew what happened to them. The whole time I was there, and after I left,” Bucky recounts, although Steve knows that, from their drunken chats. “Didn’t even remember his name, until I saw him,”  
“If he’s here-” Steve begins, confused. “I mean – how did he end up here?”

Bucky sits back, letting Steve up: he shifts, turning, so he’s sitting up on his elbows, and he can see Bucky’s face of troubled contemplation.  
“. . . The huge bounty from that man, _Rollins_ – I thought maybe I recognised him, from the castle, I couldn’t be sure – and the-” Bucky begins, and closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, “The _raw meat_ , just like they used to feed me. And _him_ , but transformed into a – a ghoul . . . Someone’s sending a message,” Bucky tells Steve.

Steve gulps.

“What are they saying?” He asks, though he’s afraid of the answer. He’s not in the habit of running away from anything that scares him, though. Neither is Bucky – but the way he looks right now, full of dread, and more scared than Steve knew he could be, he probably wishes he could develop that habit pretty quick, and just flee from all of this.

It’s not in his nature, though. Or in Steve’s. He looks into Steve’s eyes; looks down his thin body, his bare chest blossoming into gooseflesh again under Bucky’s thoughtful, curious gaze, considering how hurt he could get on the course they’ve set out on. Steve’s somewhat fragile, yes: but as he looks back up to his face, that stubborn brow, that determined jaw, those trusting eyes . . . He knows Steve’s stronger than he’ll ever be. They can weather it, maybe.

Bucky’s drawing strength from the unmentioned fact that he’s resting his flesh hand against the skin of Steve’s leg, where his trousers have ridden up. The contact is hot, and it’s warm, and both of them need it like they need air, right now. Someone to cling onto, as they confront what Bucky has known since he saw the ghoul’s face; someone to genuinely care about the other, and ride this out with them, as they both realise:

“. . . They’re saying they know how to find me. And they haven’t forgotten,”

The thought leaves them both shaken. They sleep, that night, at the same time; on their shared bad, with Steve’s chest close to Bucky’s back. If Bucky’s metal hand strays behind him, seeking Steve’s hand and laying their intertwined hands down on his own abdomen, then Steve doesn’t make a noise in protest, or comment.

He just holds him, for once wordless, as the rain pours down outside. He realises Bucky needs to know that someone that cares about him has him in his clutches, rather than the great strangling Empire; a great hydra, threatening to choke the freedom out of Bucky’s life, alongside anyone he ever cared about, like the poor man that became a ghoul.

Bucky sleeps an hour or two, brain convincing him that something similar will happen to the person he’s closest to, now, too. But Steve’s grip helps him dispel that thought, a little.

And Steve – well. He’s happy just to touch Bucky, to hold him, and to be there for him. There are monsters in their pasts, and their futures – that’s undoubted. But though Bucky’s demons are inevitably more fearsome than his own – although just as present, of course – he’s oddly glad that Bucky’s demons are his, too, now. When he remembers what his mother told him about witchers, and destiny, he feels it’s only right. He cares for Bucky too much for it not to be.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my twitter: @luckycl0ve  
> my art tumblr: jaybrogers.tumblr.com
> 
> Art credit: me!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good evening :^) Thanks for stopping by!! 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: painful medical procedure, drugs used for medical purposes, burns/brands, anxiety and general discomfort throughout

_Past_

Bucky is glad to have a map. He doesn’t know that he would have found this place on his own.

In front of him stands a large stone house: seemingly all on one floor, aside from an attic room far above, it seems homely; inviting, almost, in its architecture. But when he considers the outside, he knows that it should, in reality, be anything but welcoming.

He casts his gaze about, slowing to a stop, his dusty leather boots coming to a halt amongst the green grass that surrounds the house, aside from a narrow garden path to the dark wooden door. All around him, ornaments hang from sticks plunged deep into the earth with careful ferocity; they are beautified, adorned with ribbons and bells, as well as symbols, and the occasional paw of a creature long since slain. The tinkling noises of the ornaments in the gentle breeze set his teeth on edge.

This is a place of power: the last half a mile or so that he has been approaching this place, his witcher senses have been alerted to the presence of a powerful magic that first gave him the urge to fight, but now – sensing that he would not on his own win any fight against whatever magics lie here – give him the urge to _run_.

But still, he persisted. He’s getting that feeling, yet again, like someone is screaming in his ear: the more he experiences of his witcher senses, out in the real, unfettered world, the more he grows to understand that perhaps they were not intentional. Experiencing an adrenaline rush at the slightest hint of magic, rather than just having an amulet detect it for you, cannot possibly be an advantage.

. . . Well. Unless it was simply an experiment, to see what would happen if he was gifted these terrible powers. Or, unless it was made almost painful in its intensity on purpose. He closes his eyes.

He takes a deep breath in, and out. He concentrates on the noise of the wind: it drops, and the world becomes entirely quiet, the chiming ornaments falling still. Silent, even – no birds are singing. He wonders if it’s this place, or his presence, that have driven them off. He counts to ten.

And, when he opens his eyes, there she is.

They just stare at one another, for a moment: she in the doorway, and he at the end of her garden path, not having heard her open the door at all – strange, for him, not to hear something; not to sense a potential danger, just strides from him. He can hear her heartbeat, right now, after all. He frowns.

She’s dressed all in black: an expensive-looking velvet black dress cuts a line across her shoulders, leaving them bare; down from there, the dress hangs, clinging to her in a way that flatters, before coming to a stop before her bare feet, her ankles circled in golden jewellery.

The extravagance tells him he may be out of his depth. He senses that she is not what she appears, but then again, he wouldn’t need to be a witcher to know that. Not when her eyes are as red as her blood-red hair.

“A witcher. Great,” She says, and her voice is lower than he’d have imagined, but full of annoyance – clearly, she’s had run-ins with his less than friendly brethren. They can’t all be as perceptive, and as compassionate, as Sam. He knows that well, by now.

He knows he’s staring. She raises one eyebrow. “What is it now?” She prompts.

He doesn’t step forward. He doesn’t say anything, still unsure of how to approach her.

“Come on, now. Don’t be shy,” She tells him, a note of humour in her voice, even as she folds her arms impatiently. Her hair drifts in the breeze and shines in the sunlight, and it catches his eye. “Cat got your tongue?”

He licks his lips, feeling self-conscious amidst her confidence. He had imagined she’d be . . . _different_. Older, perhaps, but definitely harsher; crueller immediately, like every single Court witch who laid a finger or cast a spell on him. Of course, there is still plenty of time for her to be cruel. Time will tell, he supposes.

He shifts the sizeable sack of monster parts – which he has added to, on what ended up being a week’s walk here, with pit-stops to fulfil contracts, and collect on them – and drops it lightly at his feet, being sure the impact isn’t too harsh. Some of the parts are fragile.

She looks down at the bag, and raises her eyebrow again. Her gaze returns to his face, with a curious kind of scrutiny that makes him feel even more overwhelmed than before. 

“. . . Perhaps you’d better come in,” She says, and turns, walking through the doorway. He picks the sack up and follows her, almost hypnotised by her words. But not completely – he can still turn and run, if he wants. But he won’t run from this. Not when Sam told him to come.

He follows her down the garden path and, as he walks amongst the ornaments, he feels them closing in on him: he feels as if they’re growing; like the grass is growing too, up and up and up, until it’s taller than he is. It can’t possibly be, though.

He steps over the threshold, and something changes.

His eyes widen, and he starts: there’s a feeling inside him – no, no, there’s _not_. It’s the _absence_ of the way his body has been screaming at him that there’s something magical, something powerful, that needs to be slain, nearby. It stopped the second he stepped into this place. _And what a place it is._

“Your witcher's amulet won’t work, in here,” She mentions casually, from where she sits on a plush-looking armchair, beside a fire, with her legs crossed demurely. The decor looks expensive: deep reds, purples, and black surround him, from soft furnishings to intricate display pieces of art and magical artefacts alike. She looks at him, a somewhat smug expression on her face, expecting to see him reaching for his amulet, to check if it’s working. 

But she seems caught off guard, when she instead sees him pull his hand from under his cloak, and gaze at it with a look of surprise – he is not evidently displeased, like another witcher might be, at the idea that one of their articles of protection doesn’t work, in here.

No – he is looking down at his hand, at the hairs on his arm, laying entirely flat, and he looks . . . _Relieved_.

“There are warding spells, in here,” She says. “A lot of curses and spells by other sorcerers alike will not work, for the most part,” She adds. “As well as certain . . . Mutations,” She says, thoughtfully. He swallows back a threatened swell of emotion, looking up at her.  
“. . . Thank you,” He says, hoarsely. She frowns, not fully comprehending the weight she’s lifted from him.

“Bring that here. Sit,” She says, indicating the bag of parts. He shakes himself, and does as she says in short order, setting the parts down in front of her. He sits in the armchair opposite hers stiffly.   
“Let’s see . . .” She opens the sack, and withdraws several artefacts – _a cursed grail. A magical goat bell. A hellhound’s skull._

“You must have gathered significant coin for these contracts,” She says thoughtfully. “How much are you looking for?” She asks, looking up. His yellow eyes meet her red, and he feels compelled to just spit it out, this time, not wanting any more misunderstandings, as he had initially with Doctor Banner.

“I’m not here for coin,” He confesses. “These are – what I didn’t sell to Doctor Banner. He said you’d want your share,” He mentions.

She sits back in her armchair, lacing her fingers together, with a quirk of her eyebrow.  
“Oh, did he?” She says, her tone light and amused. Bucky nods. “Then it was good of you to keep some back for me. Though of course, you are not here for a simple delivery,”

He ducks his head, steeling himself. Then, carefully, he reaches up and undoes the silver pin that usually holds his cloak across his body, obscuring his lifeless arm. As it falls away, she takes a deep breath at the sight of his metal arm in a sling, bent and useless though it is.

She whistles lowly, and sits forward. He watches the way the fire’s light glances off her smooth skin, and considers how everything about her appearance seems tailor-made to scare off men who do not know what they are dealing with. Perhaps, like them, he doesn’t know what he’s dealing with, either. But he holds onto the trust he has for Sam, and his word. 

“There’s only one place in the world that would produce something like this,” She says knowingly, looking from the arm up to his face. “You’re a long way from the King’s Court,”

He sighs, hating how everyone whose help he needs seemingly knows instantly that he comes from the place they hate the most in the world. He braces himself, as he replies:  
“You're right. Came a long way to see you,” He pauses. “. . . When I left, it was against their will. They cursed my arm not to work,”

She nods sagely.  
“That’s a pity,” She mentions coyly, after a moment's contemplation, “It looks as if it would be truly terrifying, if it weren't cursed,”  
“I don’t want it to be. I just want it to work,” Bucky says, slightly frustrated at his own perceived flaws.  
“Seems like you’re getting on fine without it,” She comments, nodding to the pile of monster parts between them. He huffs.  
“Can you make it work, or not?” He asks, his desperation bleeding through into his tone. She’s not wrong – he’s been able to work without it, but working with one hand is tiring, and his back hurts all the time from the uneven weight of it. The intricate swordplay that’s been burned into his brain since before he knew he was alive is thrown off, by the odd weighting.  
“Not for free,” She bargains quickly.

He nods, reaching for his bag of coin.  
“. . . But I, like you, am not here for coin,” She says. He freezes, looking up.

She is sitting back again, watching him closely. She looks him up and down, slowly, taking in everything about him: the way his clothes are worn; the way his armour could do with servicing, or replacing. The tired look of his boots, where they sit against one of her many rugs. There is something about him that says, _whatever it takes to get the job done_. Something she could use in her back pocket.

He feels himself break into a sweat, with this novel kind of scrutiny. This is a different kind of cold sweat to that caused by his witcher senses.

“. . . Your price?” He asks, knowing that, if she has to bring it up, then clearly the monster parts will not cover the debt.  
“The parts are nice, and some of them will help with the ritual, undoubtedly, from what I can see,” She comments conversationally, picking up the hellhound’s skull, and examining it in the light of the fire. It’s a lot darker in here than it was in the light of day outside. He supposes it would be cosy, if he weren’t so preoccupied with his own fears. Truly, that is his own fault.  
“But what I need are more allies. And I believe we have similar enemies,” She says.  
“I can help protect you,” He tells her, eager to do so. From what he’s heard, border witches have lost as much as he has, to the Bitter March. This one doesn’t even have a coven.

She smiles.  
“Maybe you could. And maybe I’d even need it. But I cannot tell the future. Leave that to my sisters,” She tells him, and he hangs from her every word, desperate to know what he must give to finally be free from the King’s grasp, in his body as well as his mind. “But I think that you could offer something else. Something more,” She reasons.

He fights the urge not to run, or throw up, with anxiety.

“The Law of Surprise. Owe to me that which you do not yet know you have,” She proposes. 

He blinks. He’s heard that term thrown around, from time to time, at court. He has never seen the result of one of these agreements come to pass, that he is aware of.

“That’s it?” He murmurs. She smirks, although not unkindly, at his naivety.  
“You may not be saying that in the future, white wolf,” She warns. “You don’t know yet what you may have in the future,”

She’s right; he knows deep down that she is right. But when he feels his body weighed down by his arm, which still occasionally has bouts of feeling like it’s burning his skin, tortuous and visceral . . . When he considers that feeling, he can’t hope to turn her bargain down.

He remembers Sam’s words to him, before they parted ways, that first time they met at court, and repeats what he thinks is an identical sentiment aloud: “Anything is worth the cost of being free,” He tells her, looking directly into those shining red eyes. Her gaze lingers, a second longer, before she nods.  
“Very well. I can perform the ritual now,” She tells him. “Follow me,”

She gets up, collecting the monster parts, and walks away across soft, expensive-looking rugs on bare feet. He can scarcely keep up with the fact that he's about to get exactly what he travelled all the way here for _right now_ , before she calls back to him:  
“Leave your cloak. And your boots. Don’t think I won’t do to you what I’ve done to men who’ve tried to hunt me, for the far greater crime of dirtying my house,”

He wonders if she’s joking. He decides not to chance it, pulling his boots off, and the stockings that usually disappear up beneath his trousers. The floor feels soft, where it is covered, beneath his bare feet. He cannot remember a sensation like it, having only stayed in dingy stone rooms, in the Imperial City; inn rooms, with splintering floorboards. Other than that, he has slept in trees, in marshes, or on forest floors; he supposes the closest his feet have come to treading anything this soft is fresh, earthen mud, or possibly stable sands. He likes it – but he’s still afraid his feet, alone, will dirty her rugs.

He leaves his cloak and boots, and follows her to a set of stairs which lead, disconcertingly, down. He wouldn’t have bet, from the outside, that a house like this had a cellar – but, then again, this place doesn’t look like how he imagined from the outside in a lot of ways. It doesn't seem to be totally aligned with the laws of nature, that he can tell. 

He follows her down, thirteen steps, and into a place that reminds him of the King's Apothecary’s lab in layout, but in feel is completely opposite.

There is a slab, in the middle of the room: but rather than a literal interpretation of the word, Nat’s table looks almost . . . _Comfortable_. It is draped in fine materials, and there is a pillow at the end, to rest one’s head upon. There is a fire, in the corner of the room, crackling happily, and warming the room. He feels sleepy just being here.

There are no shining, silver tools lining the walls: if she has them, she hides them from any potential clientele, at least. He’s thankful, for that.

Though there are potions everywhere, they are a variety of beautiful colours, creating a spectrum that makes him wonder, rather than baulk. This, added to the rich, dark colours of the various pillows and chairs strewn about the floor gives the room a sort of dream-like quality, inviting relaxation, though Bucky knows its real purpose. She must know how to practice magic on men and beasts alike, given that she didn’t blink at his request to fix his arm. This is not her first time doing something like this, and it will not be her last.

When they reach the slab, she stops, and turns around: she’s a little shorter than him, turns out. Nevertheless, his toes still curl as he stands before her, already knowing he’s essentially at her mercy, for the time being, until he gets what he wants. And then thereafter, too – given the Law of Surprise’s unique terms.

“Remove your clothes,” She tells him.

He just stares down at her. She stares back. There’s a stalemate, for a moment; finally, he shifts, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck.  
“. . . All of them?” He asks uncomfortably.  
“Yes,” She deadpans, with a quick raise of one eyebrow.

He bites his lip. She rolls her eyes.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. It's just procedure, for this kind of ritual,” She mentions, trying to make him feel better. He doesn’t think she understands his feelings about it really, but he doesn’t say anything.

After a few more moments of waiting, she frowns; she sighs, finally, realising he truly doesn’t want to do it, for whatever reason. That, or he feels like he _can’t_.  
“Fine. You can keep your undergarments on. Shirt has to be off, though, for obvious reasons. And on the slab,” She tells him.

His shoulders slump, relieved. He could really do with not feeling that extra vulnerability and unpleasantness, on top of how exposed he already feels. Right now, though his environment is trying to lull him into a state of relaxation, his mind feels like it’s boiling with anxiety.

She turns away, and he hears the clink of glass; metal too, most likely. When he glances over, she is obscuring his view of most of what there would be to see. But when she walks over to the fire, placing something long and sharp and made of metal into it, he forces himself to look away. _The arm is metal. Metal requires a degree of smithing. It’s fine. You’re going to be okay. Sam wouldn’t have sent you, if this were simply to hurt you. Or he’d just have killed you on the spot, rather than helping you._

_He’s not cruel enough to dispense false hope._

“I don’t use my magic simply to heal the physical. That won’t be what he sent you for,” She says, as he goes about removing his armour. He does so methodically, discarding it to the floor with dutiful care. He unlaces his trousers, kicking them off and folding them as neatly as having one hand permits, placing them down on a floor pillow to one side.  
“Although I can fix your arm, obviously,” She continues. “. . . He will have sent you here to fix you a bit more than that,”

“What do you mean?” He asks, as he removes his sling, tossing it on top of his folded trousers without the same care. He pulls his shirt, with his usual careful manipulation around the awkward dead-weight of his left arm, over his head. He’s glad it’s cosily warm in the room, when the scented air hits his skin directly.

From the corner of his eye, he can see a small window to the outside, high up on the wall, at ground level, on one side of the basement. That link to the outside, however small, makes him feel a little more at ease, if only fractionally.

“I specialise in _wards_ , just as you specialise in _signs_. I break curses, and I lift spells. But I also ward against their creation,” She explains, as he takes a seat on the slab, taking a moment to just listen, and compose himself, before he thinks about lying back. He knows he won’t like the sensation. He'll feel like he's back _there_ , again, he's sure.  
“What I intend to do is undo whatever they’ve done to your arm – such as it is. I want to make it capable of basic feeling – no pain sensation, though,” She tells him. “And I want to ward it from other interference – of course, I have to leave a loophole, for personal interference, from myself,”

He frowns, turning his head to one side, to shoot a side-long look at her. She catches his expression, in between pouring out a thick, honey like substance into a chalice. He catches her brief eye roll.  
“. . . I’ll make it so only I can fuck with your arm from now on. Or in the event my death, whoever you choose,” She states plainly. He nods. He knows it means she can still snatch everything away from him, on a whim – but rather her, than someone who has the twisted motivations necessary to make him want to suffer unnecessarily. Or, well - at least, with the intention of helping the Empire. She seems not to like them much, either. 

But when he considers what he could lose, he thinks that perhaps his arm isn’t _everything_. He’s gotten on without it, obviously. But it’s the last thing, in his mind, linking him to the King’s Court: a ball and chain, tugging him back, holding him down, forcing him to think about his past life every time he tries to do anything that would be better suited to someone with two hands.

She turns to him, her face slightly guarded, as she considers the anxious way he holds himself.  
“But it’s going to hurt. A lot,” She warns him. She holds forth the chalice, in her hand: when he peers down into it, he can see the honey-looking liquid, with some herbs in it. It smells sweet.  
“It’s for the pain,” She tells him.

He doesn’t know that he’s ever had a painkilling potion, before. He doesn’t know that he can take it. He doesn’t know if he can bear to drink it.

He doesn’t know _anything,_ or that’s what it feels like, right now.

He brings his hand up to his face, and rubs his eyes; he shakes his head, silently refusing, with eyes screwed shut.

“Witcher,” She says, her voice softer than it has been so far. His eyes open, finally, and look into hers: in the light downstairs, her irises look more dark pink, than red. They had definitely been red, before, he had been so sure. “. . . You’re going to want to take this,” She tells him, warning in her voice, but not the kind that’s also a _threat_. Simply the truth: advice given as a kindness, as a mercy.

 _Sam wouldn’t have lied to me_ , he thinks to himself. _He’s the only one that hasn’t. But maybe she isn’t lying, right now, either._

He acts on that assumption, though he has to take a deep breath first. Hand shaking slightly, he takes the cup from her hand, and braces himself before drinking it down. She turns away, when she sees he's taken at least some of it. 

Determinedly, he drinks deeply: it’s perfumed, and sweet, and _yes_ , that was honey she put in it. He’s treated himself to the odd honeycomb, since he’s been on his own. He forces himself to think about what it felt like to sit in a mighty tree, sheltered from the midday sun by its verdant leaves, as he ate honeycomb for the first time, on the recommendation of an archer from a town not too far from here. He should thank him, sometime, he thinks, as he finishes the drink. _If I survive this_ , he thinks, sardonically.

It takes effect quickly: it’s not that he feels he cannot move, or think, it simply feels like he doesn’t care to do much of either, anymore. He finds himself yawning openly, as the sound of Natasha preparing whatever material she’s going to use, plus the crackling of the fire, and Natasha’s heartbeat, and his own breathing, form a soothing rhythm. It fills his brain up and until any concept of fear about what is about to happen is cast out – there is simply no room for it anymore. There is only acceptance of what he needs to do. Of what he needs to endure. 

His hand feels warm, and too relaxed to cling on to the chalice, anymore – he sees, as if in slow motion, his hand slacken, dropping the chalice. Natasha’s hand easily catches it, no doubt prepared.  
“Easy, witcher,” She says quietly, with gentle amusement in her voice. “That’s a witcher’s dose, for you,” She reasons, mainly to herself.

Without being told to, he lays himself down on the slab, resting his head against the soft pillow. His hair fans out beneath him, and he reaches lazily up to play with a few strands; to tuck them away behind his ear. Too relaxed to move his hand, then, he just leaves it there. It slips, until it hangs off the side of the table: his eyes follow it sluggishly, in between slipping open and shut. He doesn't know how long he lies, like that, just breathing and listening to the gentle music of the ambient sounds all around him, like they're the finest bard he's ever heard perform. All the ones he's ever heard only played the King's favourite music. 

At one point, Natasha appears above him, and moves his arm until it’s by his side. He can smell something hot in the air, but he doesn’t put two and two together.  
“I’m sorry about this,” She says.

He imagines she is. He imagines it pains her to do what she does, next. But he’s had worse, and with nothing to soften the blow. And from people who enjoyed every second of it. 

She begins her grim work, and works efficiently: her wards come in the form of brands, as he had known a few moments ago, prior to the potion sending his mind wandering.

He can smell burning, like the roasted pig smell that would emanate from the kitchens on the floor above his room, wafting through the castle, as he sat with an empty stomach. The King would make a big show of pretending to have forgotten to feed him, in front of his courtiers, if he meant could command him to eat raw animal meat in front of them; but everyone knew that sometimes, if he was in a foul mood, he would order nothing for _his wolf_ , as a way of cheering himself up. Everyone knew, and no one did anything to help him. It pleased the King to see Bucky standing there all night, in heavy armour, still as a statue, on several days of no food. Some people are cruel for their own amusement.

And some must be, to help others.

He hears his own voice, far away, pleading incoherently. He bites down on something tough, rough against his tongue, and the pleading stops. The noises he does still make are far away, and not his concern.

 _This is nowhere near as bad as the first time,_ he thinks. It wasn’t exactly like this, the first time, when they sealed the metal to his flesh, but it was a similar kind of pain. He can’t know for sure, but for some reason, as she continues her work, he feels like he knows more and more: he recalls being held down, and some sort of ritual being performed – long, long after the Trial of the Grasses was successful – his brown hair in his eyes-

Brown hair . . . Maybe it was. Maybe his eyes were blue. It doesn’t matter anymore. But maybe, years ago, they were different, and so was he.

He shouldn’t have said anything. He shouldn’t have volunteered, to spare the others. He shouldn’t have antagonised the Apothecary into picking _him_ , to be first, and the quickest to be brutalised. He didn’t know at the time that he was signing away one of his own limbs, but lo and behold, that’s what he had done.

The bite of the scalpel and the saw were awful in their own unique ways, but the cautery is what he's reliving by the second. Someone sobs in the next room.

 _I’m sorry I couldn’t save you_ , he thinks, remembering the others he volunteered in place of. He should have known that his sacrifice was for nothing – of _course_ the Apothecary was going to experiment on _all_ of them until they were nothing, anymore, nothing but bodies, regardless of Bucky’s actions, or sacrifices. He should have known, but he was only young. He still had innocence clinging to him, like grass seeds to his clothes after rolling in half-remembered childhood fields. Until they were removed by steel, and by fire.

 _And when he was done?_ He wonders if the others had seen him, afterwards – if they’d recognised him. He wonders if they could have stood the sight of him. His own family probably couldn’t have.

He can almost remember their names – the others, and – and his family-

He’s turned over, arms arranged, so she can get to his back, warding and sealing the arm in place along his shoulder blade. There can be no mistakes, here. _Seal it all._

_Burn it all. Not a trace._

_. . . All burned down._

_Run back home safe,_ someone implores him, love and care inherent in their tone, and their words. He wonders what it would be like to be spoken to like that, again, and for the other person to mean it. He can’t imagine it, and he can imagine a lot – perhaps it is just that every one of the things he can imagine involves myriad tortures, the evils of men, and monsters.

Maybe, one day, there could be room in there for softness, again.

. . . Again? Had he been soft, before? Had he felt softness, then?

 _Not yet,_ another voice whispers, and he thinks it’s someone talking out loud, to themselves _. He’s not ready. It’s too cruel for him to seek desperately in vain._

_My sisters always did say witchers are the playthings of destiny. Usually I’d say, fuck what they say, but about that one they’re right. I don’t know if it’s a good idea to fuck around with that._

_So let him wander. He will know his destiny when he finds it. Or when it finds him._

He sighs, laying down on his back, again: this time, there’s some soft material between the silken sheet, and his skin. He can’t tell how long it’s been, but time has clearly passed: someone has dressed the weeping brands, and really they don’t hurt, anymore. They’re nothing, compared to what he’s been through before he stepped into this house. To have his witcher senses calmed, alone, was a great reprieve, let alone being healed like this – even though it was a cleansing by fire. Fire, he is used to. Fire, he knows well. 

He can still hear someone making tiny, pained vocalisations, though. He’s not biting down on anything, anymore, at least. They grow quieter, as he finds himself on the soft edge between sleeping and waking. Someone brushes his hair out of his face, trying not to touch him too much, or disturb him, as they do so. He’s grateful, for that.

“Still got some more spells to do. Cleaning up. But these ones won’t hurt. Sleep, now. You’ve been carrying that weight a long time,”

He’s happy to do as she says. He slips off that soft edge, and into painless, healing unconsciousness. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!!
> 
> Things heat up Slightly in this chapter 👀 That's it that's the only warning!! Hope you enjoy this one!!

_Present_

The hooves of their horse are thunderous against the ground, hypnotic and bold, as Steve listens to them from atop it. He’s not an experienced rider, never having had the money to afford a horse, and never having been that good of a stable hand in the occasional job he worked to make ends meet back in the city he used to live in. He thinks to himself that he’s completely unsurprised that he doesn’t refer to that place as _back home_ , even in his thoughts. Home isn’t always a place, and for him, it couldn’t possibly be.

He clings to Bucky from behind, to keep himself stable: Bucky rides like he was born for it, and like he and the snow-white horse have been bonded for years, rather than purchased through necessity three mornings ago.

Bucky had awoken, that morning, early before the sun. He’d woken Steve up, too, with the ferocity of it: usually, he slips away unnoticed, Steve not even stirring when he gets up to eat and go about his errands. But that morning, he had sat up straight, panting and sweating, the same way Steve does when he has nightmares about his parents.

The sweat had been dripping down his scarred torso, down his freckled forehead, and his eyes had been wild and unseeing. Steve doesn’t think he’s seen him out of breath, many times, in the time that he’s known him. He was that morning, though.

He’d seen black and red spiders, in his dreams: red eyes, staring back at him from the darkness. He’d seen an hourglass full of them, crawling and scuttling against the glass, undulating and growing and writhing. They’d scratched at the glass, until they’d spilt free, making a mockery of time’s cruel march.

Time, Bucky had said after he’d finished recounting the nightmare while getting dressed, was something they didn’t have. When Steve had asked if he thought he was just having a nightmare because of the ghoul two days before, he had denied it. And he’d insisted they needed to see a witch – _the_ witch. Named Natasha.

Steve knows that a witch helped Bucky, many moons ago, to recover physically – and possibly mentally, he’s unclear – from his torture by the King’s men. She’d fixed his arm, for a price, apparently. Bucky had mentioned something about the Law of Surprise, but personally, Steve can’t see Bucky having a first-born or anything like that any time soon. Thankfully, he has enough coin to pay her off, most likely, if the debt is due. Coin seems like reward enough, considering how little Bucky has of anything else.

But Steve’s ankle had still been injured – and so, as if thinking absolutely nothing of it, Bucky had decided to buy them a horse. More accurately, he’d decided to buy _Steve_ a horse, with his money, paying for it for him. Steve had corrected him quickly that it would therefore be _their_ horse, not his, alone. He doesn’t need charity, no matter how much the idea of Bucky spending a damned fortune of saved-up gold on a horse for him sets his heart racing, and makes it grow. He just hopes he has enough left to pay the witch off, and wipe away the debt.

Bucky says she could have answers about the Empire’s movements, and why they’re moving now to let Bucky know he’s never going to escape, if they have it their way. He seems to think a lot of her; Steve can understand that. He appreciates witches, and all that they do: his mother taught him tolerance and reverence, of witches and witchers alike, explaining to him frequently how they both provide a valuable service to society. Steve knows, personally, that he wouldn’t have made it through several winters in his youth without potions from the doctor, and healing from witches, alike.

He wonders what Bucky’s attitude is to her, on the whole, though. Respectful, of course, but . . . He has a look of admiration in his eye, when he thinks of her. Perhaps he’s just grateful, Steve thinks to himself. He grips onto Bucky a little tighter, as they continue to ride, but not tight enough that he catches onto it, he hopes. He realises too late that Bucky can hear his heartbeat at all times, anyway, so it’s pretty useless to try and hide his – his _jealous_ thoughts, if that’s what they are. _Gods_ , he thinks, _get a grip, Rogers. He’s a witcher, and you’re a runt. There’s no reason for him not to desire a woman who gave him everything, and to whom he owes a debt. Perhaps that’s what the debt is. His hand._

He clears his throat, unnecessarily, and cranes his neck to look over Bucky’s shoulder, straining to see over him: he sees, in the distance, a lone cottage out in the middle of a field, surrounded by green grass and blossoming flowers despite the winter season. _That has to be her house_ , he thinks apprehensively.

As they approach, Bucky brings the horse to a trot, and Steve stretches: they slept, last night, on a forest floor. It wasn’t any good for his aching bones: he wasn’t able to lie on his back, still, due to the healing wound there. But when Bucky disinfected the wounds again, even with the sting, it made him feel a little better. Cared for, and safe, despite their wild surroundings. Especially when he reassured him that he would keep watch. Steve thinks he just didn’t want any more of those witch-sent nightmares, and was avoiding them by avoiding sleep.

But Steve couldn’t complain, as he'd rested his head on Bucky’s thigh, using it as a pillow, and Bucky’s cloak as a blanket, as Bucky sat vigil against a pine tree.

They arrive at the cottage, and Bucky easily hops down from the horse as they approach in one fluid movement. Steve clings to the saddle for balance, as it slows to a stop. He has a feeling of inertia, especially without Bucky to hold onto anymore, but he overcomes it as best he can, focussing on the door to the hut.

Bucky stands and stares at the door, for a few moments: Steve is about to comment that it’s customary to _knock_ , when you want someone to come out and greet you. But then the door opens, letting out a familiar figure into the foggy, crisp morning, the sun just about daring to poke through the clouds.

“Sam?” Bucky asks, to Steve’s surprise, as he sees the witcher emerge from the front door shaking his head wearily.

Sam looks up, and freezes, taking in Steve on the horse; Bucky, at the end of the garden path, looking equally surprised. His eyebrows raise, mouth falling open; then, a fraction of a second later, his face blooms into a smile like the sun:  
“Steve?” He asks, beaming, “And – wait, Bucky?”

Bucky is completely still, for a few moments, simply taking in Sam’s appearance, just like Steve is: he looks good, looks _strong,_ armour shining in the sun that drifts down onto it, amulet shining similarly gold. His golden eyes shine, and his dark skin looks vibrant against the fragrant, bright flowers that surround the witch’s cottage.

Then Bucky starts forward, reaching out to Sam: he just lays a hand on his shoulder, slipping slightly down to his breastplate. Steve watches the exchange, dumbfounded, as Sam’s hand goes to the back of Bucky’s neck. It’s a strange, hearty embrace the likes of which Steve has never seen. He supposes they can hear one another’s’ heartbeats; he supposes they are in time, with familiarity, and happiness.

“It’s been a long time,” Sam says, a hint of laughter in his voice, and Bucky nods, neck rubbing against Sam’s hand as he does so. Steve can see him huff out a great, shaking sigh, from the movement of his shoulders.

“Love the stubble,” Sam says jovially, indicating Bucky’s face. Bucky lets out a bubble of low laughter, just decompressing, and murmuring a _thank you_. The King used to keep him clean-shaven. Probably easier for the white face paint.

After a few seconds more, Bucky’s hand slips up to Sam’s shoulder, and to his neck, lingering there for a few seconds, before he gathers himself. He maintains contact with Sam’s shoulder, as he turns to Steve where he’s still sitting on the horse.  
“Steve – this is-” Bucky says, but then pauses, rewinding the events of the last few seconds, which were all but lost to the sentimentality of the reunion. Sam had said Steve’s name, before.  
“Sam,” Steve says fondly. “I know,”

Sam strides past Bucky, squeezing his shoulder as he goes, and to Steve:  
“Gone up in the world since the last time I saw you, huh?” Sam teases, patting the horse, and soothing it, as he grins up at Steve.  
“Only physically,” Steve comments. “And, uh – I travel with – with Bucky, now,” He adds, somewhat needlessly. “You know each other?”  
“Sam got me out,” Bucky tells Steve, coming to stand beside Sam; he strokes the face of the horse, movements idiosyncratic and repetitive, as if he’s only doing it to calm himself. Steve thinks that, for once, he looks . . . _Overwhelmed_.

“Of the Imperial city?!” He asks, shocked. Sam nods.  
“It was a long time after we met,” He says. “I was only there covertly on reports the King was up to some shady shit – had witchers, as prisoners, or worse. Of course, since then, well – you’ve heard the rumours,” Sam says. Steve nods – he has. He’s heard there are witchers amongst the Bitter March, and he knows that Bucky used to be amongst their ranks, however unwillingly. He’s not sure the rumours are true anymore, but they persist, nonetheless.  
“And you – know each other, too?” Bucky asks, frowning, though he’s trying to keep his voice light.

“Sam was the witcher that found me alive – I was just a kid,” Steve says, looking anywhere but the two witchers’ faces. “Took me to a doctor – saved my life,”  
Bucky’s eyes widen, and he looks at Sam, who just shrugs in acknowledgement. _Yup, that was me_.

“How?” Bucky asks, mainly to nobody.  
“I’m older than I look. Hell – you could be, too,” Sam points out. It’s true: witchers don’t age like men do. They can travel for decades, without the lines of ageing adorning their face, or pains of ageing affecting their light feet or their swordsmanship.

“And now you two are travelling together,” Sam repeats, and gives a low whistle. “Damn. You hear about witchers being destined to do things, but . . . You never think you’re gonna be involved in that kind of thing. Almost like you two were supposed to meet,” He muses.

Bucky looks up at Steve; Steve looks back at Bucky. They hold one another’s gaze, for a moment.

And Steve laughs.

“Yeah, right,” He chuckles. Bucky’s face softens, where he’s watching Steve. Sam’s eyes slide from Bucky’s face, to Steve, and back again. He listens to their heartbeats, unbeknownst to them. And he knows Steve’s incredulity is, likely, unfounded.

“You two might wanna wait, a bit, before going in there,” Sam explains, indicating the cottage.  
“Why? You use the chamber pot?” Steve asks sarcastically. Sam shoves his leg, carefully avoiding where he can see that Steve is missing a boot presumably so as not to exacerbate an injury.   
“No, asshole – she’s dealing with someone. Local archer, got himself bit by a ghoul,”

Bucky stiffens, eyes affixed to Sam, frozen. Steve watches his carefree, easy expression fall away in a second, replaced with anxiety incarnate.  
“What happened?” Steve asks, eyeing Bucky, before looking to Sam, who rolls his eyes in remembrance.  
“He’s a dumbass. Decided he was gonna try and beat me to the bounty – a human man. No magical insight, no signs, no spells, just a bow and arrow,” He says. “Barton’s a good man, but thick as a couple of two-by-fours,”  
“. . . Oh, gods,” Bucky mutters, his anxiety forgotten for a moment when he hears that name.  
“He said he’d met another witcher. Guessing it was you,” Sam says, unsurprised, when he sees Bucky’s reaction. Bucky nods.  
“He’s a fool. Everyone around here says so,” Bucky says. “Good marksman, though,”  
“Right,” Sam says, as Steve considers if every witcher is destined to walk the same path; visit the same landmarks, and hear tales of their brethren, while interacting with the same humans. Perhaps it’s just that, with resources becoming scarcer and some towns becoming deserted with the frequent invasions across the border, there are fewer places to seek refuge.

Or perhaps it’s just Sam and Bucky, _just_ missing one another a few times. Maybe nothing more.

“Anyway. It wasn’t your typical ghoul hunt. The thing looked-” Sam pauses, for a second, trying to sum it up in words. “Weird,” Is the best he can come up with, before he elaborates: “Still had its clothes. Its face, really. I kept the head, if you wanna see it,” Sam recounts.

Bucky’s stock-still, again, and Steve knows why: this is hitting too close to home.

“The strangest thing – well,” Sam looks directly at Bucky, right into his eye, as he tells him: “There was a trail, leading to where it had _nested_. A trail, of fresh beef steaks,”

Bucky swallows. He shuts his eyes, and Steve can see him hold onto the horse’s reigns, just steadying himself.  
“. . . Are you okay?” Sam asks him, as he watches Bucky’s strange reaction, echoing what he had asked him previously all those years ago.  
“We have a similar story. Dead similar,” Steve tells him. “. . . Almost exactly the same,” He adds, with a sinking feeling.

Sam’s eyebrows raise, pinching together with concern, as he looks from Steve, to Bucky, and back again.  
“What’s going on, here?” Sam asks carefully.  
“The King – the Empire,” Bucky says, voice strained, and he looks like he’s trying not to throw up, looking even more sickly pale than usual. “. . . They must be after you, too, now,”

Sam’s eyes grow impossibly wider. After a few seconds, he shuts his eyes, and tips his head back, looking even more weary than he had when he’d been considering the man Barton’s foolishness earlier. What he says next, all three of them feel deep in their chests:  
“. . . Fuck,”

* * *

Steve watches, by the side of the river, as Bucky methodically sheds his clothes. Bucky has long since helped him down from their horse, and onto the soft moss beside the wide, black-watered river. Steve wouldn’t think it was a river at all, had they not ridden down beside it for a few miles, now, just following it to somewhere silent for them both to think. It looks too still, the current hidden far beneath the surface.

So, too, is the turmoil Bucky clearly feels hidden way down deep. Steve can see it, in his yellow eyes: the way they stare, too long; the way they flit about, like something is wrong with them, caught on different visual stimuli like they’re stuck in place. Steve doubts he sees much of anything, right now; processes even less.

There’s an audible _thunk_ as he drops his swords beside Steve, shedding them like a second skin: even in his casual clothes, he always wears them on his back, afraid to part with them. But with a look at Steve, he makes his intention clear wordlessly: _you look after these, for now. I trust you._

Steve watches, unable to tear his gaze away, as he sheds his shirt, next: Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the way his skin looks, dotted with freckles like someone has flicked a paintbrush at him a million times, and made of marble aside from them. He wonders if anything could burn and brand marble, like the witch and tortures unknown have scalded Bucky’s skin.

Next come his pants: he takes them off, and alongside his shirt, folds them dutifully. Just looking at him, Steve doesn’t feel the biting cold of the winter morning much, anymore. He remembers when Bucky wouldn’t even take his armour off around him, when given the option, a few months ago; how he wouldn’t let him see him sleep, or eat.

He leaves his briefs on, loose though they are. They don’t leave much to Steve’s imagination; even less, when they become wet.

Despite the fact that there are still pieces of ice floating along gently on the river, and the grass is still frozen stiff against his bare feet, Bucky dives gracefully into the deep river water, submerging himself completely. Steve pulls his lined cloak tighter around himself: he’d bought it for himself those months ago, on Bucky’s suggestion, before they set out to travel together. He’d rather be holding onto Bucky himself, truth be told, of course.

Bucky takes a few minutes to emerge: Steve grows anxious, inevitably, but he trusts Bucky to come back to him, like Bucky trusted him with his weapons.

When he emerges, it’s with his face smooth, and eyes closed, wiped clean of his apprehension for a few brief seconds. Steve reaches for his sketchbook automatically, like Bucky probably knew he would. This one will not be left on a noticeboard for some ungrateful townsfolk – no, this one will be just for them.

Bucky had wanted to be clean, after what Sam had told him. Steve knows that swimming, submerging himself, makes him think more clearly – and really, with waters this cold, he doubts that anyone could emerge from them without their priorities set into stark focus. Steve still couldn’t face it himself, of course, and would probably die if he even thought about it too hard. But Bucky . . . Well. He looks carefree, again, for a few precious moments. Steve likes him, like this.

He likes him like anything. He watches, as Bucky lays back, floating in the water for a few moments, hair splayed out. Steve can see everything, of course he can: the underclothes cling to him, and it gives Steve a good enough view for a life-drawing. _Would that be too far? Would that be too much? He can never tell, and it’s killing him._

The Empire came close, to Bucky; to Sam, and to Steve, whom he cares about, clearly. Steve wonders which of them he’d care about more – then shuts down that train of thought, ashamed he’d even had it for a second. Sam has always been someone Steve’s looked up to, having saved his life, many years ago; the reason Steve was even still alive, to meet Bucky. Steve has just arrived at this latest chapter of Bucky’s life, a skinny, sickly artist, who can’t fight, and can barely shoot.

But he can draw, though. Oh, he can draw.

After a long, long time, Bucky emerges from the lake, hauling himself back onto the shore: Steve watches as he squeezes his wet hair, dripping onto the forest floor beneath him. He smooths it back, running his fingers through it, eyes shut for one serene moment. And when he opens them, he’s looking down at Steve.

And he smiles.

“. . . I like that,” He says softly. Steve doesn’t realise he’s talking about his drawing for about ten seconds, just staring, dumbfounded, until he does. He looks down, and sees an almost obscene sketch of Bucky, nearly every single detail of his body painfully obvious, as he lays back, submerging himself in a quiet but turbulent subaqueous world. His hair looks dark, because of the charcoal. But Bucky likes it, so that’s okay.

“Yeah?” Steve breathes. Bucky nods.  
“I like – what you see,” Bucky tells him, not for the first time. Steve swallows.  
“I – uh . . . I like it, too,” Steve swallows again, almost convulsively, “I saw a lot – _see_ a lot,” Steve tells him, feeling guilty, for a second, at what his eyes have shown him, and what his hands have drawn; he feels flush creep up his neck, and stain his cheeks.

Bucky laughs quietly, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Steve considers Sam’s comment about how witchers are ageless; how he could never know if Bucky’s relative youth is genuine, or just the result of his mutations. Whichever it is, his entire visage has Steve’s heart thundering, and his eyes locked on like they have no choice but to look at him.

“That’s okay,” He says, and reaches out with his flesh hand, ever-so-gently making for Steve’s head. Steve remains still, remaining sitting on the ground, enraptured by Bucky’s affectionate expression, having shed any and all anxiety at least for a moment or two. He reaches out from where he stands gazing softly down at Steve, and cards his hand gently through Steve’s wild hair. Finally, he tells Steve: “Glad you did . . . Wanted you to see me,” He confesses.

Steve licks his lips. _Oh, gods._

Steve reaches up, and takes Bucky’s hand gently by the fingers: he brings it slowly, tentatively, towards his face. Finally, feeling like he’s trying not to get burned by Bucky’s flesh, but that he’ll be _damned_ if he wouldn’t be scarred for the love he feels for him, he kisses his hand.

He maintains eye contact throughout, and Bucky’s cat’s-eyes follow him, seemingly equally enraptured, as he does it. Bucky’s hand is hot against his skin, he had it right all along, despite the fact he’s just submerged himself in freezing cold water by choice. He must be crazy – _they both must be_ , a monster hunter, so often mistaken for a monster himself, and the man who loves him.

Perhaps it’s mutual. Perhaps he could dare to dream that, now, he realises, as he sees the look on Bucky’s face. He recalls his mother correcting him, once, that witchers _can_ feel – they just have a reputation, being so stoic, and professional. Well, if she could see him now – _gods_ , if she could see him now-

Bucky withdraws his hand, slightly, still continuing to hold Steve's as he smiles down at him:  
“So chivalrous, Rogers,” He teases, with a raised eyebrow. Steve remembers months ago, when that look was directed at him in hostility at his assertion that he could be one of the King’s attack dogs. Things have changed exponentially, since then.

No – he could _never_ be that. No animal could look like this; could feel, like this. They couldn’t make him a beast then, and they won’t now, no matter how much fresh meat they leave out for him in warning.

They need to go back, now. Natasha needs to speak with them.

But if they take a few moments to lie on the forest floor, Bucky drying himself on his cloak and getting his clothes back on at length, as Steve adds to the finer details of his drawing, then no one will be any the wiser.

They need this time. They don’t know how much, yet.

* * *

Bucky leads the horse by its head, as it carries Steve back from their mid-morning sojourn in the forest several miles away. They both feel much more relaxed: Steve knows that personally, he feels relief in the gentle embrace they shared, and the knowledge that Bucky _wanted_ him to see . . . _Everything_ , his whole body, wanted him to see – to _want_ all of him . . . It brings up a lot of questions that disquiet his soul, but they do so in a good and exciting way. A way that he can’t get enough of.

Bucky looks a lot more relaxed, in his body, too: anxiety doesn’t suit him; rather, this new, defiant stance, ready to take on the world after his time in the river, and with Steve, suits him to a tee.

As they approach, this time, Steve can see a figure standing at the door once more, to greet them: someone other than Sam, who has presumably retired inside, as he planned to when they left to allow Bucky to go and swim.

Steve’s vision swims into focus, as they draw closer: he recognises the witch, from Bucky’s descriptions. She wears all black, as he had told him, with a deep-v neckline to rival Bucky’s own casual clothes. She wears trousers, which Steve has seldom seen outside of the city; she looks capable, as she stands there, a pensive expression on her face. Steve notices that she has dark red eyes, like roses: they seem to be full of dread, as she watches the two of them approach.

When the horse comes to a stop, this time, Bucky helps Steve down immediately, as if it’s nothing. Bucky turns to the witch, eyebrows raised, when they see her foreboding expression:  
“Natasha?” He asks, and Steve can hear the concern in his voice. He gathers that uncertainty, and apprehension, are as alien to her as they usually are to Bucky.

“Barnes,” She says, low voice kept carefully even. He nods, as he watches her carefully, remaining still. Steve has only heard him reference his second name a handful of times before now.

“. . . It’s time to pay the debt,” She says. He nods, not understanding her meaning, yet.

But Bucky tracks her eyes, as they move from his face, to linger pointedly on Steve.

Bucky looks from her, to Steve; Steve sees his eyes widen, slightly, with some realisation he doesn’t understand, yet. His fear is back again, just like that, alongside upset the likes of which he had only previously seen on Bucky’s face when he recognised the ghoul as one of his fallen comrades, a few days ago.

He turns back to Natasha, horrified.

She nods her head once, her expression guarded, but regretful and apologetic nonetheless.

Steve has a bad feeling about this. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my twitter: @luckycl0ve  
> my art tumblr: jaybrogers.tumblr.com
> 
> Art credit: me!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your kind words about the story so far!! So thrilled to hear you are enjoying it!! That means a lot to me :') 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: discussion of wounds and dressings, discussion of manipulation/coercion/drug use

_Past_

Gentle light filters through Bucky’s eyelids, from the right, castling a yellow hue over the darkness behind them. He’s not truly aware of it for a while, his mind slowly returning to him, along with his awareness that he is awake, _alive_ , and able to move as he pleases again.

His eyes roll beneath their lids, as he brings up his flesh arm, hand pressing against his face; just feeling that he’s still there, still whole. But when his left arm – the great, heavy, chainmail-covered limb, useless and painful for so long – automatically bunches in the sheets beneath him, he freezes.

He brings both hands up in front of his face, and opens his eyes: there they are, right in front of him, greeting him as if there were never anything wrong with them. As if he didn’t have to go through what happened last night, in order to see them working in tandem, again.

He sits up in one movement, still looking down at his hands, mouth falling open. This is what he had bargained for, and yet . . . It’s _different_. His arm works again, but it’s painless and – _yes_. It even feels _lighter,_ now, somehow. His breathing comes a little quicker, as he turns them over, examining the backs of them, and the fingers one by one. They’re just how he remembers, of course, but he can’t help but check.

He sniffs, feeling a tear dropping from his face, and onto the metal hand: strangely, he feels it on his hand, if only slightly. He blinks, and vaguely recalls Nat’s words: _some sensation. No pain_. He holds the metal hand in his flesh one, massaging the metal palm with his thumb, and his brain tells him that it is being touched. He can feel with it, now. No more relying on guesswork, as to how hard to grip things; no more relying on being as brutal as possible, when he can achieve finesse.

He looks down at his chest: there, where she branded him the night before, are some now-dirty fabric dressings. He goes to remove them.

“Careful. It’s still healing,”

His head whips around. He sees Nat, sitting on a chair, beneath the small, high-up window to the outside world and the ground above. She looks different, today: rather than her glamorous velvet dress, and long, loosely-curled blood-red hair, she looks . . . More comfortable. Her cherry-red hair is tied up and out of her face, and she wears more plain clothes: a loose shirt, and dark trousers. He blinks, a few times, growing accustomed to her new look. Clearly, she doesn’t feel she has to intimidate him, anymore. Unsurprising, what with the fact she had him crying and begging in pain last night. He sniffs.

“Although – you tend to heal fast. Witchers, I mean,” She comments. She doesn’t look up from what she’s doing: reading a thick tome, balanced on her crossed legs, as she sips a mug of a hot drink whose smell he doesn’t recognise.

He blinks, and looks back down: carefully, just like she said, he peels the dressing away from the now-dry wounds.

It’s just like he knew it would be: around the edges of where the metal meets the skin, symbols have been burned into his skin, never to fade. The symbols form a solid line, protecting it from interference – magical or otherwise. He looks over his shoulder, pulling the dressing from there, too, and finds the same. The entire border is lined with these symbols, pink from their recency, and still tender to touch.

“I disinfected them,” Nat tells him.  
“. . . What?” He asks. He doesn’t know that word. She looks up at him.  
“They won’t go nasty,” She simplifies.  
“Oh,”

She stands, then, setting her book down.  
“How are you?” She asks, seemingly valiantly ignoring the fact that she must have just seen him shed a tear over being able to use both of his arms, again. He looks down at his hands, yet again.  
“. . . They work,” He states plainly, unable to get over the fact. She nods.  
“And your head?” She asks.

He thinks about it, for a moment: he remembers how soft and pliable his limbs felt last night, after her drink; how his brain felt like it was speeding through echoes of thoughts at a thousand miles per hour, but also stuck on something it had recalled from the past, like it was snagged and torn. He has no idea how long any of it took. He just knows that, now, it all seems like a bad dream.

“Fine,” He replies. She nods, and takes another sip of her drink, watching him thoughtfully.  
“Well. Guess you know that your arm can feel, now. The warding works, too – no magic will interfere with it," She confirms. He sighs, forcing himself to relax in that knowledge, and trust her. After all – she didn’t do anything he didn’t want, to his body, last night. She could have done anything, including killing him, but she didn’t. He can trust her. Sam was right.

“And I used the wards to prevent anyone from using any new magics to meddle with your brain,” She mentions, almost casually. He looks up at her, stricken.  
“ _New_ magics?” He asks. She nods.  
“There were things in the past. Old spells. Couldn’t do anything about them. I don’t know of anyone who could,” She explains. “But . . . Nothing more. No new spells. You’re under my protection,” She says.

He nods, just thinking about what that means, for him: even if his mind was controlled in the past . . . In the future, no one else will be able to do that. As long as he stays away from the people who did it first time around, and know the way to reassert their control, he’s fine. He wasn’t planning on ever seeing them again, anyway.

“. . . Your clothes were pretty beat,” She says, turning to leave, and go upstairs. “I’ve left some others in the dresser. I get a lot of men calling that aren’t interested in keeping their lives. Meaning they didn’t get to keep their clothes, either. I only have use for so many. Take your pick from the spares,” She tells him. “And then come and talk to me,”

He frowns – although, knowing that the Bitter March operates not too far from here, he knows that the men she killed were likely incredibly bad news. Not just for her, either. He doesn't comment on it, as she leaves him alone. 

He moves off the slab, where he had slept all night, and onto his feet. He loves the balance he feels, now: not weighed down unevenly on one side, not stooping, not limping or trying to over-correct. He feels normal – even though he’s not. He’s normal for _himself_. And that’s what matters.

He steps across the rugs and floor pillows, and across to the large dresser on the other side of the cellar: he moves a candle from it, not wanting to topple it over by accident. He doesn’t need it, anyway, given that the light flooding through the small window to the outside is lighting his way. It shines on his pale skin, and he watches his own freckles stand out proudly, for just a second, before he sets about finding himself some clothes.

. . . _A lot_ of men have lost their lives – and therefore their clothes – around here. Or perhaps just the latter: he doesn’t know, or mind. They’re hers, now, and she said he could take them, for whatever reason helping him beyond what he had asked for.

But the variety means he can easily find garments that match his size and stature.

These are a _lot_ finer than his usual clothes. He examines a pair of leather trousers, high-waisted, with silver buttons – he could never envisage buying these for himself, and he feels his cheeks burn at the thought. But today, he feels he is reborn: and therefore, he can have things that make him feel new. So he takes the plunge.

He tries them on, testing the fit: _yes_. He likes the feel of them: sturdy, enough room to move; he has liked how they’ve looked on men he’s seen on his travels. He’ll take them.

Next, a shirt: simply an undershirt, of course, for when he’s not wearing his armour. He doesn’t want anything too tight, given that his wounds from the night before are still tender. Perhaps his surroundings have inspired him: he selects a rich, deep blue shirt from amongst the clothes, and slips it on over his head, revelling in how easy it is now that he has two functional arms. He feels his cheeks heat up, again, when he sees how deep the v-shaped neckline goes down his chest, down to his abdomen, and quickly laces it up until he’s at least _half_ decently-dressed. Some of the wounds can breathe, at least. He tucks the shirt in, and pulls up the large, long sleeves slightly.

From the bottom drawer of the dresser, he pulls out some stockings, pulling them up quickly beneath his trousers, before he turns his attention to the boots. He easily picks out black leather boots in his size, tipped with steel: useful for fighting, and sturdy for all the walking he does. He is sure they will be worn through in a matter of months, but for now, they are perfect.

He slips them on, tucking his trousers in, and straightens. He casts his eyes about, looking for a mirror: there’s nothing around, right now, for looking at his whole body. But on top of the dresser, at least, there’s a smaller mirror for his face.

He looks, and for a second, he sees a brown-haired man staring back at him; he’s gone, in a second, replaced with a silver-haired version. _Himself. He sees himself_.

He takes his hair down, from where the front of it has been tied back: smoothing it out, and straightening it into some sort of order, he ties it back partially again, making himself presentable. Nat worked hard on his body, after all, to get it in working order: he assumes, from the way she asked him to talk to her when he was dressed, that she wants to see the fruits of her efforts turn out looking good, as well as working well. He can try and oblige.

When he steps into the room upstairs, it’s much lighter than yesterday: there are windows he hadn’t even noticed, and they’re open, letting fragrant fresh air and warmth inside. Nat’s sitting on her armchair, again, the fire still lit despite the warmth. He doesn’t find himself too hot, however. It’s likely all the result of magic, but without his witcher senses throttling him, he doesn’t find that he minds; doesn’t have to bring it up. Even if he did, it would be to thank her.

“Wow,”

When he looks at her, she looks very surprised: she takes in his choice of clothing, giving him a good look up and down in a much different way to how she did the day before. He stands very still, awaiting her full appraisal. He notices himself in a mirror across the room, and takes a good, long look. He looks – _strong. He looks whole. He looks confident. He looks like a fighter. He looks like no one should fuck with him. Maybe they won’t._  
“No one ever let you dress yourself before, huh,” She comments. He shifts, bringing his hand to his hair, smoothing it slightly.  
“I like this,” He says, defensively, misunderstanding her.  
“Oh, it’s great,” She says, dismissing his impression that she was disapproving. “I just meant – it’s better than what you had. Before. Much different style,”  
“This isn’t like what they wore at court,” He says, mistaking what they wore there for what actually looks good, to most folk.

“I know,” She says.

He turns his head from the mirror, to look at her: she’s grimacing down into her drink. She finishes it off, and sets it down on the table between the two armchairs. She indicates that he should sit, as he did yesterday.

“. . . How?” He asks, carefully, as he sits. She licks her lips, and finally looks up at him, and into his eyes. She shoots straight with him:  
“I grew up there,” She says.  
“What?” He asks, taken aback. He doesn’t recognise her at all.

“A long time ago,” She tells him. “I was born to nobility – my father was a noble, anyway. My mother, a border witch,” She explains, her short explanation clearly papering over a potentially brutal story.

“My name – wasn’t Natasha, before. I was born a child of the House Romanova. When I came of age, I was to be married off to some . . . _Noble_ ,” She mentions, sounding disgusted. He frowns, as she continues: “Then my magical ability manifested. I was a sorceress, alright,” She says, her tone bitter with her remembrance. “And after that – well. I have seen your memories. I know that you know what it feels like, to be a commodity, in the King’s Court,”

Bucky swallows, and nods.  
“My . . . _Sisters_ , in the King’s Court. They had grand prophecies – only about half of them came to pass. Guess-work, really. But he bought into it. And then one day – they had a prophecy about me,” She explains, her voice low. She stares into the fire, eyes far away, not even really tracking the dancing flames. “. . . That I would bring about his downfall. I _hated_ the other court sorceresses. And they hated me, too. I’ll never know if it was a real prophecy, or if they made it up out of spite. They weren’t above that,”

Bucky remembers the lies, at court; the rumours, and the backstabbing, and the executions performed on a whim. He watched it all, silently, any time he wasn’t being forced to injure and kill the King’s own subjects, and the occasional troublesome monster enraged by the Bitter March. He fought with his hands. The courtiers fought with their mouths. The result was the same – victory, nobility, and favour – or torture, ruin, and death.

“I absconded. I don’t have a coven, because I wasn’t raised a border witch. I’ve reclaimed it,” She explains.  
“. . . I’m sorry,” He says, not knowing what else he could possibly offer to her than his apologies. He knows intimately that, truly, there is nothing that could make her feel better, after being chewed up and spat out by the King’s Court. Nothing but time, perhaps. And her own reclamation of who she is.

She smiles sadly at him.  
“You are the last person to have to apologise, Barnes. Our stories aren’t too dissimilar. I have seen yours,” She tells him. He blinks, taken out of the story, for a second.  
“Barnes?” He asks, frowning. She looks up at him, emerging from her reverie, for a moment.  
“Your last name. You didn’t know that?” She asks. He shakes his head. “. . . Then I guess I’m glad to introduce you to yourself,” She says, with a dark note of humour.

He looks down at his hands, again. He doesn’t recognise the name whatsoever. He doesn’t know how to feel about it. He turns his attention back to her, not wanting to dwell on how many dark areas of _nothingness_ lie in his past; in his own mind. He sees her self-loathing, and he knows it as his own, in some respects.

“You got out on your own,” He tells her, his voice low. “No one had to tell you that was an option,”  
She sees straight through him, realising he’s admonishing himself for not rebelling sooner: “After the magic they used on you – the substances-” She shakes her head. “There’s no way you could have realised,” She reasons.  
“Potions and magic aren’t the only things that control people,” He tells her. He’s seen enough of fear, and experienced more, to know that.

She doesn’t have an answer, to that. She simply nods. There’s a long moment of silence, between them, as they each consider the youth and lives that they could have had, if only they hadn’t been thrust into circumstances that forced them to do evil.

“So . . . What we’ve been through . . . Is that – why you’re helping me? – The clothes?” He asks, unable to shake the notion that she is only helping because she pities him. She smiles, again, a little brighter this time.  
“Clothes help me feel like myself. I figured, they might help you, too,” She reasons.  
“They do,” He admits, smoothing the fabric of his trousers beneath his hands, and feeling contented with the feel of them.  
“Then it’s the least I can do. When I was there – the King was only just starting to realise his fascination with witchers. He’d hired one to his court, who said he was familiar with the Trial of the Grasses – he had high hopes of creating more,” She mentions, her words deliberate. She watches Bucky’s posture become tense. He nods.  
“He succeeded. Handful of times. Don’t know if there are any left, now, though,” He supplies shortly.  
“Still. I could have done _something_ to stop it,” She supposes.  
“You couldn’t have stopped it. He’s the King. He always gets what he wants,” Bucky dismisses. She knows he’s right – but the guilt hangs off her like ill-fitting clothes.  
“Maybe not every time, he doesn’t,” She posits, looking into his eyes, imploring him to believe that that is a possibility. 

He thinks about it, for a moment: the King didn’t get Natasha, and he didn’t get him. He didn’t get to keep them, at least. He lost them.

He should get used to losing. He’ll never succeed in conquering this land– not the wildness he’s seen, not the monsters, and not the defiant people.

“Speaking of . . . Court. All that bullshit,” She says. She nods to the table – he notices his leather bag, which he uses for his effects. He hadn’t even considered that he’d left her alone with it, unattended, last night. After the initial pang of anxiety he experiences because of that, he relaxes: after all, he’s trusted her with his body, now. His bag hardly seems like anything at all, compared to that. 

“Pretty heavy duty potions you have in there,” She says – Bucky knows she’s talking about the ones he took with him, when he left the castle. He nods.

She reaches into the bag, as he watches closely, and takes one of the silvery potions in her hands. She looks up at him, a question in her eyes: he nods, so she uncorks one. She examines it, holding it up to her eyes, to get a good look at the consistency. She nods thoughtfully, although there’s an edge of disapproval to her expression.

“Memory potions – with a little-” She sniffs it, and screws up her nose, “ _Minor_ paralysis. Probably fatal to a human. Hope you didn’t use this on anyone,” She says, eyeing him reproachfully, though he clearly procured them from court. She hasn’t seen anything of this strength, meant to do this much harm, outside of straight-up poison, this side of the border.  
“They’re mine,” He says, frowning. “. . . Used on me,” He clarifies. “Didn’t know what they were. They said I needed them every day,” He shakes his head, not surprised in the least that that was a lie. “I used to think I needed them. Was afraid what would happen without them. That’s why I took some with me, when I left. Only . . . When I felt okay without them, I stopped. I was scared at first, of what life would be like without them,” He confesses.   
“You did the right thing,” She tells him, corking the bottle again, and setting it down on the table. “I’d get rid of them. In case they fall into the wrong hands,” She says.

“Take them,” He agrees – she does as he says, happy to remove them from his possession. Yet again, another weight she’s removed from his shoulders: this time, literal.

“Where will you go, now?” She asks. That one, he does know the answer to. His posture relaxes, and he sits back in the armchair with a contended expression.  
“Wherever I want,” He tells her. “I’ll do what any witcher does. Hunt monsters, and collect on contracts,”

She smiles.  
“I’m sure you’ll be great,” She tells him. “If the shit you killed with one hand tied behind your back is any indication,” She says, flattering him. He almost has the urge to laugh, at the statement.  
“Thank you, but . . . As long as I don’t die, I’ll be happy,” He admits. “It’s enough just to be out there, doing what I-” He pauses. _What he was made for,_ perhaps _._

_Not what he was born for, though._

_He wasn’t born like this._

_But . . . Maybe it can be his calling, anyway._

“. . . What I want,” He finishes, confident with that sentiment. She accepts that answer, looking happy with it, herself – before a thought crosses her mind, the realisation dawning across her face:  
“Oh – that reminds me,” She says abruptly. “Your mutations,”

He forces himself not to start and sit up straight, at that. He quells his anxieties, trying hard not to let them show on his face. He’ll have to get better at that, in the future. How else is he going to get good at investigating the lies of men who come to him with half a puzzle to solve, omitting salacious details, with a contract in their hands?

“Yes?” He asks with an even tone.  
“Your . . . Witcher senses. _Incredibly_ intense,” She says. “More a detriment, than a boon, to any witcher actually working,” She mentions. He nods slowly, watching her carefully, afraid of what she will say. “. . . I got rid of them,” she says. “The warding symbols removed them. I know, I should have asked – but your expression, when you walked in – I could sense something was wrong – and I saw in your mind how it makes it hard to – to sleep, or even _think_ ,” She recounts, speaking uncharacteristically faster than normal, perhaps afraid of a bad reaction. “You can rely on your amulet from now on,” She mentions, nodding to where the wolf's head sits on his chest, exposed by the low cut of his shirt. 

He closes his eyes, for just a second, savouring the revelation. In truth, he had been reluctant to leave, right away: he knew that his witcher senses would be screaming at him, anxiety-inducing and almost painful, interfering with his other senses like a migraine, as soon as he walked away down that garden path. But no more.

“. . . Thank you,” He says quietly, his voice gravelly. “I – I know I owe you anyway,” He says, and clears his throat. “But – is there anything else I can do?” He asks. She shakes her head.  
“Nothing. Just . . .” She pauses, biting her lip. “You’ll know. When the time comes, for me to collect,”

He remembers when Sam said something similar. He doesn’t doubt that he’ll know, when it’s time.

“Of course,” He says, though he can’t possibly know what he’ll lose to her.  
“But that’s in the future. For now – I think I’ll make breakfast. You can have some, before you go,” She says, standing, and walking to the small kitchen area, on the far side of the cottage. “You like eggs?”

He doesn’t know if he likes eggs. He doesn’t know if he likes a lot of foods, or drinks. There’s a lot he doesn’t know about himself, or about the world, in general – but reborn as he has been, today, he knows he has time to find out. He’s not afraid of what Natasha may ask of him, because he trusts her, and he trusts Sam.

With people in the world that he knows are good – or, at least, in his corner, facing off against the same enemy he is – he can be confident.

Life can, and has, started anew, for him. He’s ready to jump in with both legs first, and both hands on the hilt of a sword, steel or silver alike, a true witcher.

Perhaps he is not what he was always destined to be, from the day he was born to the parents that presumably gave him away to a malevolent empire – but what he has become, destiny surely arranged.

However, as he watches Natasha cook them a meal, and prepares to stray out into the world alone, and unafraid, he gets the strangest feeling that it’s quite not done with him yet.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my twitter: @luckycl0ve  
> my art tumblr: jaybrogers.tumblr.com
> 
> Art credit: me!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!! Updating slightly early!! Although technically it _is_ Sunday, here. 
> 
> Buckle in for this chapter. I mean, for real. Buckle in!!
> 
> Warnings for: canon-typical human experimentation, childhood trauma, cruelty to children, violence

_Present_

The mood, in the cottage, is sombre.

They each sit in their own armchair: Natasha and Sam sit on one side of the coffee table, and Steve and Bucky sit on the other. At the end of the table, the fire burns happily, like it doesn’t know that every crackle sets Bucky on edge even more. Steve can see it from his posture – he’s full of dread. _Consumed_ by it.

Steve himself is . . . _Nervous_. Nervous, but not quite as bad as Bucky. More, he’s just afraid of why Bucky is so afraid; that expression doesn’t suit him well, and it’s not one Steve’s used to seeing. He wishes desperately to wipe it away with his own hands, and convince him things will be alright.

But he doesn’t _know_ they’ll be alright. Not yet. He doesn’t understand the magnitude of the situation, and it’s eating at him, too.

Sam looks between the other three, taking in their various levels of apprehension, from Natasha with her nervous anticipation, to Bucky, who looks as if he may be about to have some kind of panic episode. He’s breathing deeply, idiosyncratically, like he wants to leap up and attack something. But there’s nothing physical to attack, here. Just the consequences of a deal he made years ago.

“. . . I need him,” Natasha says. It’s been hanging in the air, since she told Bucky his debt was due, but it hadn’t been said. She’s looking at Bucky, but it’s clear she’s talking about Steve.  
“Me?” Steve asks incredulously, his face pinching in a frown.  
“You-” Natasha says, turning her gaze finally to him. She appraises him, giving him a once-over, and takes a deep breath, “-are what Bucky has, but didn’t know he would have at the time of making a deal with me,”  
“I’m what he _has?_ ” He repeats, his disbelief intensifying. “Wait – I thought – the Law of Surprise was just for, for – money, or a house, or a horse or – _gods_ , even a first born?” He stammers.

Natasha shakes her head.

“No. It can be almost anything,” She tells them all hollowly. “And it just so happens that the first thing that sincerely means anything to him since then is you,”  
“How do you know?” Bucky asks quietly, but Steve can see barely-contained anger – directed towards himself, no doubt – in his every muscle. The same way no energy is ever wasted when he walks, or fights – currently no energy is being expended on anything _but_ worrying about what he’s wrought.

Natasha smiles sadly.  
“Well, aside from . . .” She pauses, eyes flicking to Steve, and back to Bucky, giving him a deliberate look, and leaving it at that. “. . . When I go into a person’s mind – examine their past, like I have yours – cast an irrevocable spell on them, like I did your arm – that’s a bond, between me and you, that’s going to last until one or both of us die,” She explains frankly. Steve looks between her and Bucky, the word _bond_ ringing in his ears, as he desperately tries to stop it from doing so.  
“I could tell – I just knew, when you had found something. And the Law of Surprise, it’s – well,” She bows her head, slightly, as if ashamed that it’s come to this: “It’s a magical Law. It can’t be broken. The consequences would be-”  
“Fuck that. You’re not taking Steve,” Bucky says, and his voice has a low, dangerous quality that Steve’s rarely heard in it other than his taunts at various oncoming monsters, or attacking spirits, goading them into fighting him rather than attacking Steve, or some other innocent bystander. Steve knows, there’s a darkness to it, that couldn’t come from anything but – _well, anything but-_

“Do you remember what you said to me when you came to me? – When I asked for the Law of Surprise, because I knew you had no other way to pay?” She says, her voice slightly more stern, and frustrated with him. “You said _anything_ was worth the price of being free,” She reminds him. He grits his teeth.  
“Not Steve,” Bucky says insistently.  
“Bucky!” She snaps. “Would you fucking listen to me?”

He pauses, although his face is contorted with distrust. This is far from what Steve had seen of Bucky’s relationship with Natasha, so far: he’s usually so reverent, when he refers to her. Right now, when she’s threatening something he cares about, that has soured. Steve didn’t realise, truly, how much he meant to Bucky. Until now. 

“It _can’t_ be broken. Okay?” She says bluntly. “It’s a magical bond. You could die. _He_ could die,” She says, pointing at Steve with an insistent finger. Steve looks at the finger, with its shining black fingernail, and swallows. Bucky doesn’t manage to translate his shocked, indignant expression into a verbal argument before she continues:  
“And what I have planned is a hell of a lot better than _that_ ,”

Bucky looks from her, to Steve: takes in Steve’s appearance, as Steve looks back at him in the firelight. Steve can tell, from his pained expression, that he’s afraid of looking: he looks so tenderly, so closely, that he must be taking in every freckle, every line, every inch of skin and hair that he can see, just to be able to catalogue them all in case he loses him. It’s heart-breaking to watch. Steve sits still, throughout, although he wants to tell Bucky not to bother, because they’ll be okay.

But again – he can’t guarantee that at all. So he looks softly back, and takes the same care to look at Bucky, for the same reasons.

“. . . I’ve heard her plan,” Sam says. Steve and Bucky immediately break from their doting gazes, to look at him. He has an even expression on his face, perhaps already anticipating damage control from whatever he's about to say. “You should hear her out – hear _us_ out,”  
“You knew about this?” Bucky says coldly, looking horrified that another person he trusted could be conspiring to hurt someone else he cares about.  
“Not before – no,” Sam says, reaching out a placatory hand, before Bucky’s imagination runs riot. “Just now. While you were in the woods. She told me about why she summoned you here – about – all of this,” He says, and sighs, shaking his head. He doesn’t look too pleased about any of it – hell, _none_ of them are.

But the Law of Surprise can’t be broken. So they have to deal with the fallout.

“There’s something that could qualify as her collecting her prize,” Sam explains, looking to Natasha, who nods to him, allowing him to explain. Right now, he seems to have a little more favour with the two of them, given that he’s not the one owed the debt, however unwillingly. “A . . . Procedure,”  
“Experimentation?” Bucky asks, eyes wide and alarmed. Steve doesn’t realise he’s reaching for him, before he feels his metal hand gripping onto his forearm, vice-like and uncomfortable.

“Bucky-” He hisses. Bucky looks down, and releases his grip – fractionally. He still holds, with his usual gentle touch, so uncharacteristically forgotten for a moment there in his panic.

“. . . Not experimentation _per se_ – I-” Sam sighs, again, and rubs his face. “I used to have a preceptor. At the School of the Griffin,” He mentions. “Former prisoner of the Empire. He was a doctor, in charge of creating witchers – he wasn’t one himself, but he was an _expert_. Knew the Trial of the Grasses back-to-front,” He recalls, face softening for a moment, with his remembrance. “Doctor Erskine was the best human I ever knew. The King was trying to force him to create witchers – probably around the time you fled court, Nat. Before my time, though,” He mentions. She nods, accepting that that’s likely the case. After all – she wasn’t privy to the King’s plans, and how he intended to create witchers for his army, or his personal uses, or both. She was only party to his endless ranting about how _strange_ they were, how _exotic_ , how _interesting_ – and how much they could help the Empire in their conquering. She stopped listening, after that.

“He got out, and made it to the School of the Griffin. When I was coming up, he had this – _theory_. That it would be possible to make someone as strong as a witcher – as fast, as agile, as good at fighting – without the Trial of the Grasses . . . Without compromising their humanity,”

There’s a long, silent pause; Sam looks up at Bucky, catching his eye. He looks like a trapped, wild animal, about now: nowhere to run, no way of avoiding what’s coming next.

“He said as long as the person was good – in their soul – it would be a success,” He says, and finally, turns his gaze to Steve. “. . . From what Natasha’s told me, she knows the procedure. And she thinks she could use it on you, Steve,”

Steve shifts, not moving his arm from Bucky’s insistent grip. He draws strength from it, in fact, knowing that – although it’s because of Bucky that he’s in this situation – he’s not going through it alone. He’s got him, he’s with him, he isn’t going anywhere.

“What – uh,” He says, and coughs awkwardly. “What you mean I’d be a – like a, uh – a witcher?” He asks, simply trying to understand.  
“No, not a witcher, but – strong, like one,” Sam says, although the distinction is, at best, tenuous. “Capable of the same feats, physically. But still-” He looks down at where Bucky holds onto Steve like he’s holding on for dear life. “Still human,”  
“And what, she can-” He pauses, looking to Natasha, “You can do that?”  
“I’ve had that information for a long time. Sam brought it to me, as a gift from his School, for a favour a long time ago – some _business_ with a werewolf,” She says, waving the story away dismissively, although it sounds wildly elaborate to Steve.

Steve swallows, and looks at Bucky: he’s silent, staring at the ground, and his face has become stone. He looks almost . . . _Impassive_ , and Steve is having trouble reading him, right now, for the first time in a long time. It worries him deeply.

“That’s not all,” Natasha says quietly. That breaks Bucky from his stupor, his eyes finding her face, begging her not to pile yet another thing onto his mind, doubtful he could take any further losses.

“ _This one_ is cursed – I’ve seen it once before,” She says, and her eyes slide from Steve over to Bucky, lingering on him long enough for him to know exactly _where_ she’s seen it before. It could be any of the numerous curses she lifted from him, but still – Bucky is afraid what magics have their grip on Steve, without him even knowing about it, possibly for as long as he can remember.

. . . _Remember_. Bucky considers how Steve can’t remember what happened, to his parents; to his town; who did it, and for what reason. He almost physically recoils, at the thought that Steve and him are cursed in the same exact way, given that he can remember relatively little of his own life. He doubts he’d wish even a tenth of what he’s been through himself on his worst enemy – let alone Steve, who he – _who he-_

“I can lift it,” She finishes, finally. “I can perform the procedure on Steve. And you’ll be free of the debt,”  
“Does it have to be Steve?” Bucky asks, and his voice sounds smaller than Steve has ever heard it, with a pleading quality to it. Bucky is looking at her shoulder, rather than her face, when Steve glances at him. He hates to see him like this, when just hours ago, he seemed so carefree and at peace.

She nods her head.  
“. . . Face it, Barnes – we’re alone, out here. You, me, Sam – the half-dead archer downstairs,” She says, although it’s likely hyperbole, if the way Sam rolls his eyes is any indication, that Barton is _half-dead_. “We’re the only people around willing to defy the Empire – and they’re coming for us because of it. They’re coming for Steve, too – you know they are,”

Bucky gulps, because it’s true: that was a trap for him, back in those woods; but Rollins approached him _and_ Steve, and he got a good look at Steve’s face. They’ve already made monsters of his old friends – his former fellow prisoners – and now they know he’s with Steve, he’s a target, too. They’ve seen his face. There’s no going back from that. Steve knows it just as well as he does: it's his life on the line, too, now.

“. . . The least we can all do is make it so that he can fight, too,” She reasons.  
“Steve _can_ fight,” Bucky insists. “He can – he can shoot,” He offers.  
“Not everything can be shot, Bucky,” Sam reminds him. It’s true: there are a wide variety of monsters that require other physical skills – ones Steve simply doesn’t have. And that’s without counting the myriad soldiers, mercenaries, and _witchers_ that could turn up at their inn room door at any moment, out there in the world.

Bucky shakes his head; he stands, suddenly, letting go of Steve, and bringing both hands to his head. He grips his forehead, driving the heels of his hands into his eyes:  
“No, I – no,” He mumbles, repeating _no_ over and over under his breath, for a few moments, “This can’t – you can’t-”  
“We have to,” Natasha reminds him insistently.

He strides towards the door, still holding his head, and Steve stands abruptly, calling his name: “Bucky!”

He looks back, and at the other two; Sam nods at him, and Natasha looks at the floor, not wanting to look him in the eye right now. It’s clear as day that this is _not_ an ideal situation – but her hands are tied. All of their hands are tied, one way or another, by that leviathan, _destiny_. He still steps outside, anyway, needing to clear his head. 

Steve follows Bucky out of the door, after a few minutes: he sees him a few paces down the path, bent double, with his hands on his knees. From the heaving of his shoulders, Steve can sense his anguish; all that panic, flowing out of him like a dam has been broken, his nightmares realised in reality.

“Bucky,” Steve repeats, and approaches him. Gingerly, he brings his palm to Bucky’s back, rubbing it gently between his shoulder-blades. Bucky stands, abruptly, and turns around.  
“I – I can’t let them take you,” Bucky says, gesticulating erratically in a way that doesn’t make a lot of sense to Steve.  
“I’m not _going_ anywhere,” Steve reasons. Bucky scoffs.  
“But you – _you_ , the you that I-” He lets out a harsh breath, and closes his eyes, gritting out, “ _This_ you – will be gone. What if that happens? What if you’re _different_?”  
“I’ll still stay with you,” Steve reassures him. “Remember what we said. Til the end, if you'll let me,”

Bucky shakes his head.

“But what if you don’t even _remember_ that? I don’t – remember – how _this_ happened to me,” Bucky argues, pointing two of his fingers, indicating his eyes. “What if you don’t remember?”  
“I’ll still throw punches at folks who try and talk shit about you anyhow,” Steve tells him, in an attempt at levity. Bucky looks hurt – he grips Steve’s upper arms, gently but insistently.  
“This isn’t a back-alley Steve – it’s _war_! You’re not – you’re not a soldier, you’re not-”

“What? A witcher? Like you?” Steve shrugs his hands off, backing up a step. “I’m aware of that,” He says, anger lacing his voice. “I’m aware I’m all but useless – that everything I can do in a fight, you taught me, _thanks_ ,”  
“No, not – not everything – _Steve_ -” Bucky says, not wanting Steve to talk about himself like that.  
“Would you just-” Steve steps up close to him again, frustration pushing him forward. He presses his closed fists against Bucky’s chest, and he can feel his warm skin, where his mostly open shirt doesn’t cover it all. “-Would you let me decide, this time? You - _we_ need to get out of this – there’s no way but through it,” Steve tells him.

He closes his eyes, bowing his head, for a moment, as he listens to both of their breathing: it’s slightly harsh, on both of their accounts. Finally, he looks up at Bucky, and pleads with him to acquiesce:  
“–Would you let _me_ save _you_ , for once?”

Bucky looks taken aback, at that. Perhaps he never considered what he’d done when he agreed to take Steve with him – when he’s pulled him out of the jaws of monsters, or banished a spirit just about to have Steve join it in the afterlife – _saving_ him. But . . . Apparently, Steve has always seen it like that. Bucky had no idea, really.

“I know it comes naturally to you – to protect people – to protect me,” Steve recounts, his voice low and emotional. “But I feel that urge, too. About – everyone. Everyone who’s good. Especially you,” He confesses. “And now . . . You gotta let me take this chance. To be – better. To have whatever curses lifted off me – and help you get out of this debt. Please, Bucky. Let me help you?”

Everything is completely silent for a moment: the only noise is that of the unseasonable flowers around them blowing in the gentle breeze; the tall grass in the fields sighing, as the wind dies down, undisturbed once more. The clouds pass, overhead; time goes on, regardless of what they feel. So they may as well feel it.

Bucky brings his flesh hand to Steve’s face: he cups Steve’s cheek, and uses his rough thumb, calloused from weaponry, to brush his soft flushed cheek, under where his red eyes want to water with his desperation to help the witcher. Steve’s eyes flutter shut, for a moment, revelling in the simple, gentle contact. He can’t stay truly angry at Bucky for long, and neither can Bucky stay mad at him. But there’s a lot riding on this decision, for both of them.

Bucky takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes: gently, he dips his head down, and presses his forehead against Steve’s, as he’d done in that tavern a few months ago, drunk and merry. Right now, he’s completely lucid, for better or for worse: they both take a few seconds to silently appreciate one another, to embrace, and to reconcile the reality they’ve been forced to inhabit; the decisions, they both have to make.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry I gave your life away, Steve,” Bucky says, voice uncharacteristically shaky.  
“You didn’t mean to,” Steve tells him, though it's cold comfort, now. “You couldn’t have known,” It’s the best he has to offer, and they both know it.

They hold one another close, silent for a long while, after that.

* * *

Steve appears at the bottom of the basement stairs: Natasha looks up from her instruments, and sees his thin, determined face in the ambient lighting of her workshop. She knows he’s decided to do it.

“How long will it take?” He asks, clinging to the banister to allow himself to stand even with his injured ankle.   
“As long as it needs to,” She answers truthfully – of course she’s never attempted this, before. No one has. Steve glances to Sam, across the room: he nods at Steve, supportive of his sacrifice, although he wouldn’t wish something untested like this on anyone, if there were any choice.

But he’s doing it for the greater good. And for Bucky.

Natasha glances behind Steve: finally, she sees Bucky step down into the basement, and stand behind Steve with a hand on his shoulder, supportive.

He nods, too. He’s accepted Steve’s decision, clearly. He knows what needs to be done.

“. . . Then we should get started,” She says, and nods to Sam: he gets up, and makes his way to the stairs, past Steve and Bucky. Barton, it seems, has already been sent on his merry way by Natasha, in the meantime.

Bucky goes to turn away, and follow Sam from the room – but of course, he looks back, taking one long, last look at Steve; drinking him in, as if he can hold him there, right at the front of his mind, forever. He doesn’t want to let go of him, but he has to let him do what he wants to do, and for all the reasons he wants to do it.

He wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Let alone Steve. He’d rather he himself suffer the consequences of a broken magical promise a thousand times over than leave Steve to Natasha, and the untested experimentation that she has in store for him.

But he couldn’t guarantee it would be _him_ that would suffer the consequences. Steve has his mind made up – and gods know as well as Bucky does, that Steve is a stubborn son of a bitch. He couldn’t talk him out of this, and he’s tried. It’s his decision, now.

He leaves the room.

Steve steps up to the slab, where Natasha has arranged clean, fine silks for him to lay on. She indicates for him to do so, and he does quickly, without pre-amble. When he’s lying down, face staring determinedly at the ceiling, her face appears above his:  
“I know you don’t know me, like the others do,” She tells him, and it already sounds like an apology. “But I’m damn good at what I do. You’re going to suffer, you’re going to be in pain – I can give you something to take the edge off,” She offers, “But I know I can make this work. I’m asking you to trust me,”

Steve sets his jaw, and nods.

“Whatever it takes,” He confirms, and sits up briefly to take the offered pain relief potion, not arguing with her clear expertise.  
“Then close your eyes,” She says, taking the empty chalice from him.

He listens to the fire crackling. He hears the sounds of new potions uncorked. He hears hissing, and bubbling, and the sound of Natasha whispering words he could never understand the meaning of.

He feels the gentle waft of her hands waving over his head.

That’s when the pain begins – and when he is changed forever.

Steve remembers.

* * *

_Distant past_

Steve is outside, when it happens: when the Bitter March takes his village, they do so from all angles, blocking off all routes of exit; herding people like cattle into the town square, relatively few though they are, and savagely beating dissenters.

Steve had been collecting food for his family from the market: he doesn’t have hunting skills, he doesn’t have foraging skills, but he does know how to haggle with his family’s limited coin until he can afford their daily bread. He wouldn’t know any other way they could really make ends meet, without that skill, and the kindness of a select few others – his father is a retired soldier, wounded from days of battle many moons ago, and his mother an assistant to the town doctor.

He can’t see them anywhere in the crowds – but he can see his house, on the edge of the town square, small and innocuous. He wonders if his parents are in there; he hopes they are, and are hiding, because these men are brutally singling people out from the crowd, right now.

Steve can’t catch his breath: where he stands, in the crowd, he feels panicked and alone. He’s ten years old, and doesn’t know how to fight, or protect anyone – but he’d protect _everyone_ if he could, frequently getting into bust-ups over it with older, meaner kids.

But it’s not them that need protecting: Steve realises too late that the people the armoured men of the Bitter March are pulling from the crowd, one-by-one, are all young boys around his age.

He’s grabbed by his skinny arm, and yanked away from the other townsfolk, who fret and make noises of distress, because he’s a _child, just a boy, gods leave us be, haven’t you taken enough from us?!_

He’s thrown into the smaller group, by the well: he's surrounded by his schoolmates, some of them his friends, and some not. All of them young boys. The soldiers surround them, preventing them from running, as they are the rest of the townspeople. There are a huge number of soldiers, for just one town: Steve wonders, trying to ignore his fear for a few moments, what they could _possibly_ have here that would be worth sending out such a big party for.

Steve catches sight of what appears to be the commander of the group: he freezes, shocked, when he sees the man’s eyes. On his chest, an iron bear’s head medallion sits; his face is lean, and scarred horribly from the claws of something Steve wouldn’t even like to guess at.

But his _eyes_. Those are the yellow cat's-eyes of a witcher.

“Make sure none get away. We need as many as possible,” He’s snarling at his men, who hurry to do his bidding. Steve watches as the witcher catches sight of a man trying to sneak from the crowd, and starts to beat him bloody with his fists, kicking him while he’s already down, while the townspeople scream and cry. Steve starts forward, eager to help the man, but one of the soldiers spots him and shoves him to the ground, leaving him to dust himself and stand up, again. He always stands up. 

But there’s someone missing – _he said he’d be back, he only went for an hour, to collect trapped rabbits for food – for both of their families – where the hell is-_

“You! – Grab him!”

There’s a commotion throughout the crowd, as two soldiers run down one of the alleys leading away to the nearby woods: Steve hears yelling, and sounds of a struggle, before they emerge, holding between them the frantically fighting figure of a young boy. They throw him to the ground, in front of the witcher commander, his freshly hunted rabbits falling into the dirt. The witcher chuckles, as one of his men sneers,  
“Rumlow - this one thought he could get away. Came back to town with your dinner just at the right time, didn’t you, boy?”

Steve watches as the boy raises his head, his curly hair wild about his face, as he gazes up with hatred into the soldier’s eyes – and of course, it had to be him – he couldn’t have just run away, couldn’t have just gone and gotten help-

“Bucky!” Steve cries, unable to help himself.

Bucky’s face changes, when he sees Steve, amongst the other boys from the village, set aside for whatever nefarious purpose the Bitter March have today. His eyes widen, and he scrambles from the ground, running towards him. Steve makes a break for it yet again, too, not consciously in control of his actions. This time, he succeeds in lurching forward and breaking from the group. _Bucky needs to be okay. They can’t hurt him._

But as he runs, he finds his momentum suddenly forcefully stopped: he chokes, held back by his shirt collar. As his hands fly to his neck, trying in vain to release the chokehold, his eyes catch sight of his attacker: the witcher himself. Using speed and agility only a witcher could have, he caught Steve in an instant, and has a wicked smile plastered on his face as a result.

“What do we have here?” He asks, amused. His men have Bucky, Steve’s blurry eyes can tell: he looks so small, compared to them, and Steve knows he himself looks even smaller.

“Let him go!” Bucky snaps, struggling.  
“Oh, him?” The witcher says, feigning ignorance. He chuckles, again.

He turns his head, looking at the small collection of boys his men have pulled from the crowd. He casts his thoughtful gaze back to Bucky, after a few moments, and approaches him.

“You good at hunting, kid?” He asks, as Steve continues to struggle in his grip, sucking in air as and when he can. “Caught some hares,”  
“Rabbits,” Bucky says. “You can have them – just put him down,” He bargains. The witcher laughs, again.  
“Shrewd negotiator,” He mocks. “And a little fight in you,” He observes. He looks up, at his men, and adds, “Good quality, in a candidate,” They nod, murmuring their agreement.

Steve wheezes: he can feel his face going red, from the effort of it.

“Fucking put him down! Now!” Bucky yells, trying to start forward again.  
“He mean a lot to you, kid?” The witcher asks.

Steve looks down, eyes swimming, at Bucky: he can see his red cheeks, his freckles standing out even through the haze of panic and his blurry vision; he thinks of the times they’ve shared together, playing in the woods, gazing at the stars, sharing their deepest secrets. He thinks of every time Bucky has bailed him out, from schoolyard bullying, to giving him and his parents a few rabbits, when they were short on food. He thinks about how there are things he’s never told anyone, aside from Bucky.

He knows both of them have the same answer to the witcher’s question, when it comes to each other. _Of course, and always_.

But Bucky remains silent. There’s no good answer, here.  
“Does he?” The witcher insists, and Steve feels his feet leave the ground, as the witcher hauls him by his shirt from the ground. He kicks his legs, trying to kick him in places that hurt, but he only succeeds in hurting his own feet through his thin, worn shoes, against the witcher’s hard armour.  
“Yes!” Bucky admits, and he sounds deathly afraid, in a way that breaks Steve’s heart.

The witcher smiles.  
“That was your first mistake,” He says.

He turns to his men:  
“Alert the sorceresses. I want this whole town burned to the ground, and cursed. No memory of this place leaves here,” He says. Steve struggles, feeling close to blacking out in his cruel grip. “But for now – round these boys up. We’re taking them with us. New candidates. Pretty successful diplomatic excursion, I’d say,” He jokes, his foul humour ending a statement that alarms each of the townsfolk that can hear it.  
“Even him?” One of the men asks, pointing at Steve. The witcher looks at him, as if he’d forgotten he was holding him - either because of his own superhuman strength, or because Steve weighs so little. He hums, as if trying to decide, for a moment.  
“I think the kid cares about him,” He says, referring to Bucky. “Too bad, really. He’s never gonna care about anything, when we’re done with him,”  
“So we leave him behind?” The soldier asks.

The witcher pauses, for just a moment, before he walks over towards where the other boys are grouped, beside the well. All around them, the townspeople are quiet, just watching, as he approaches the rest of the group. From where he’s held aloft, Steve can see Bucky shift, slightly, coming to terms with the fact that the witcher is considering lumping Steve in with Bucky and the others, and taking them all . . . _Somewhere,_ candidates for _something_ they couldn't even guess at. 

“. . . Take all the others. The runt can drown,” The witcher says and, without another word, throws Steve into the well.

He screams all the way down, until he hits the dark, shining water: he can’t catch his breath, coughing and spluttering; he tries not to, tries to keep quiet and hear what’s going on above. He thinks he can hear Bucky screaming, protesting in incoherent yells. When he hears that, he shouts, himself: for his parents, for Bucky, for _anyone_ who can hear him, can _help_ him.

But he knows it’s no good when he smells burning from above; hears the screams, and the steel of swords, and watches the sky above grow black with smoke. They’re taking all the other boys away – they’re taking _Bucky_ away – and they’re killing everyone else – _cursing this whole place so no one even remembers any of it, not even him, before he passes-_

No one’s coming for him. No one even knows to _look_. And he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

_Mother, father – and Bucky – I’m sorry._

He tries to stay afloat, and waits, for a long time, to die.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my twitter: @luckycl0ve  
> my art tumblr: jaybrogers.tumblr.com
> 
> Art credit: me!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!! This will be the Last chapter set in the past, given that the previous chapter ended with a flashback (way, _way_ back in the past). Thanks for all your comments so far, so interested to hear all your thoughts!! 
> 
> I know I only updated yesterday, but I've revised my posting schedule, given that I've had a change in life circumstances and want this to be posted a bit quicker - so, from now on, it'll be every other day until it's finished!! There will be five further chapters, I think (can I count?? Maybe!!) 
> 
> Warnings for: discussion of colonial violence, discrimination and violence against witchers, alcohol use, Gender Talk

_Past_

He’s drinking alone, and that’s the way he thinks that he likes it.

The other patrons are sat at a bench, boisterously discussing a local archery contest, in a way that sets Bucky on edge. The feeling is reminiscent of his old, thankfully now-removed over-reactive witcher senses. Well – _reminiscent_ implies that he misses them. It’s been over a year since Natasha did him a favour in removing that particular mutation from him, and he hasn’t once wished for them back.

 _Why would he?_ After all, he has Sam’s amulet resting against his heart to warn him with a quick, succinct vibration, should there be trouble in the nearby area. Supernatural trouble, that is – all other forms of trouble reveal themselves, with time, Bucky has found.

Just like now.

He’s sitting at the bar after a long day of hunting, cloak slung about his shoulders, shrouding him and covering his armour so that he doesn’t show off the abnormal craftsmanship – well, abnormal this side of the border, perhaps – as he always does. The craftsmen this side of the border are better with scale mail, and plate armour, than they are leather. He’s heard that, further out West, from where Sam hails, there are excellent tanners he could use to get different armour, but . . . He feels drawn, at this time of year, to be near where Natasha is.

An anniversary, of sorts. True, he’s been away from the King's Court way over a year, but he counts the full moon that he was transformed by her spells as his rebirth. The day he named himself out loud, proudly, and the day he took the life he knew he wanted for himself.

He doesn’t intend to see her. He respects her too much to bother her, for no real reason. He does get the feeling that the anniversary may be when she asks him to make good on their deal, to give her that which he didn’t know he had at the time of their bargain – _the Law of Surprise_. Right now, he reasons what he has is coin: he’s more than happy to give her every penny. He’s had nothing, before. He’ll have nothing, again. He’s slept under the stars, cold, and eaten barely cooked birds to survive. He’s bartered with monster parts, and eaten the edible ones, when he’s fallen on hard times. Every time, he’s built himself back up, taking contracts and earning his place amongst these folks. There are worse things, to him, than poverty.

But not all of them believe that he has earned said place. From the corner of his eye, he can see them watching him, between their over-loud laughter and shouting. It’s a common routine, now: most of the time, it ends in him retiring early to his inn room, before any conflict can start. Other times, well – it usually ends in him being kicked out, before being told never to return to the establishment, for blackening the eyes of their more . . . _Prejudiced_ patrons. If he were a smaller, or a weaker person, perhaps he wouldn’t even try to confront them. But he’d still _want_ to. And he _is_ stronger. And bigger.

In the guise of tucking his hair behind his ear, he turns his head very slightly, yellow eyes getting the briefest of views of the group of men: _archers_. Or, at least, they fancy themselves to be. Their bows, on their backs, are ornately carved; inlaid with gold, with ivory, and gilded. Between them, they have more coin than sense, and possibly more cruelty than both. From their stares, and their wealth, he doubts they would ever have a cause to need a witcher, in their comfortable little lives: they would likely send their servants out to hunt whatever beast plagued them, should the need arise. Regardless of whether said servants had the knowledge, or skill, to be successful; regardless of whether they would ever return, at all.

So they’ve never seen his kind, most likely, outside of the storybooks their minders may have shared with them, as spoiled children; words whispered, or vulgarly spat, about how witchers aggressively pursue women, and steal children to begat more witchers. Let alone will they have seen one with bright, silver hair, and an obviously mechanical arm. He’s aware that he’s an oddity. He doesn’t see how it’s anyone else’s business.

He hears, with his keen senses, the way one of them scoffs, and murmurs something like, _look at that. Magic-tainted, or something. Have you ever seen anything like that on someone who wasn’t the thrall of some kind of_ -

He says an unpleasant word, then. Bucky knows he is referring to the piercings in his ears, which he got a month or two ago, alongside the one in the septum of his nose. The man is right, in that he received them from a witch, but he is not her thrall – rather, he had seen others with them, and liked how they appeared. He learned the value of them, as charms and wards in local folklore, and he liked the sentiment behind them, too. He belongs here. He knows it, deep down. He can’t say from where he hailed originally, of course, but he knows where he’s going, and he knows where he belongs.

He’d made friends with that witch who, funnily enough, had kind words to say about Natasha. No one in this area will ever dare speak her name, although the people always allude to a witch’s house beyond the furthest reaches of the nearby woods; a red-haired temptress, who has turned men into spiders, or some such nonsense.

Bucky doesn’t think she turned men into spiders. He thinks she turned monsters into ash. And that those monsters deserved it.

He doesn’t look up, simply taking a drink from his iron flagon. It’s sometimes better to pretend he doesn’t hear the taunts, or the disparaging words. It becomes more and more difficult, however, when they talk about the ones he cares about. He’s loyal, perhaps to a fault, but he has so few people in this world that care whether he is alive, or not. He’s starting to realise how much they _mean_ to him; he’s always known how much he’s owed them. His life, for one. His freedom, too. Those tend to be one and the same, for him, he finds.

If they want to stare at his piercings, they are welcome to do so. As long as they don’t-

“Witcher!”

_Of course._

“I said, creature!”

His voice is shrill with misspent education, and Bucky can taste the wealth on his words. Perhaps he’s grown tired of his revelry, or maybe he’s recently fired his personal jester. Bucky’s not vying to be his next one. He shifts, slightly, trying not to react. 

“Oh, don’t be like _that_ , witcher,” The man says, laughter in his voice, and all around him, as he calls out once again, “We simply want to ask you how much coin it would be to kill a fool who spoilt our contest, for us,”

Bucky dips his head, and shuts his eyes, taking a great sigh. Finally, he turns his head towards them: they’re tipsy, of course, and they each have mean intentions in their eyes. There are six of them, there, overdressed in expensive fabrics and plate armours bearing family crests. Only the proudest of families have remained in this area, so close to the border, he knows: only the ones with the most to lose, stubbornly waiting it out, and forcing all of their house staff to stay, too, with the threat of invasion and the brutality that comes with it looming over their heads. Or perhaps, they are willing to make a deal: allow the Bitter March to ransack the poor folk, while sparing their property and lands. Forming ties with the King, while he ravages the common people, taking their lives and livelihoods. Yes – that seems likely.

In short, they are not good people. And they are not friends to the common folk that Bucky has adopted as his own, regardless from whence he came, originally.

“I don’t do humans,” He growls shortly.  
“He doesn’t _do_ humans,” The man says to his friends, condescension and derision in his voice. He is standing above the others, arms spread wide, ale in one of his hands sloshing slightly as he gesticulates. His friends erupt in sycophantic laughter. “What do you do then? Wolves? Animals, I’m sure,”  
“I kill monsters,” Bucky clarifies, gritting his teeth. It’s not exactly a new one, on him. He’s been fed raw meat like an animal, before. He's had all sorts of assumptions made about his body, and his _habits_. He’s had worse than this man and his friends can dish out.  
“Oh? And what about the one you see in the mirror?” The man asks, to more raucous laughter.

Bucky fixes him with an unflinching, hard stare, as he tells him in a low, even, dangerous voice:  
“I always know a monster when I see one,”

The tone shifts like a change in the wind. Everyone goes quiet.

Bucky turns back to his drink, and takes another sip.

“What the fuck did you say?”

Bucky ignores him.

“I’m talking to you, half-breed!”

Bucky closes his eyes.

Footsteps approach, but he doesn’t look up. He killed three succubi, today – well, two incubi, and a succubus, to be specific; he is given to believe that they may change gender, as the need arises; that they have no fixed gender. Not so different to himself, perhaps. Aside from the fact that they exist in that in-between state purely to facilitate the hunt. He has always been between definitions, himself, simply because none he is aware of will fit. 

They had been killing the folk in this town, and he’d taken care of it, for a hefty sum from the town’s council, who frankly just wanted the mystery of disappearing, dismembered men solved, and dealt with. He doesn’t have the energy, now, to fight this man. He’s still busy considering what happened today, if he’s honest.

Before the man can get within three paces of him, the inn door opens, and in stumbles the figure of a man: Bucky reacts, quickly, already on edge. He reaches out, and catches the man as he trips over the threshold, and into the establishment. Bucky’s would-be assailant stops awkwardly, dumbfounded by the new presence.

Bucky hauls the new man up by his arms, and sets him down on the barstool next to him in one quick motion, catching him when he lists to the side slightly, threatening to fall. Bucky watches him with a doubtful gaze: his bruised face, his broken nose, his light-blond hair sticking up in every which direction, some of it blood-stained. Both of his eyelids droop, slightly, and he smiles at Bucky lazily, punch-drunk.

“Well thanks, witcher!” He says, and slaps Bucky on the shoulder with the confidence of someone who doesn’t fully understand their own words.  
“. . . No problem,” He says. He notes, when he looks to one side, that the man who had been trying to approach him moments ago has returned to drinking himself even stupider with his compatriots at their bench. He didn’t want to get involved with this new man, for whatever reason.

“Hey – hey, did you sort out the – the succubi? Is that why you’re here?” The new man asks. Bucky frowns.  
“Yes,” He responds.  
“Awesome. What did they look like?”  
“You knew there was more that one?” Bucky asks curiously, surprised.  
“Oh, you know. Would’ve sorted it myself, if it’d been just one of them killin’ folks. But I had a funny feeling, what with the number of bodies stacking up . . .” The man trails off, waving his hand in front of his face. He gestures to the bartender, indicating that he wants a drink. With a doubtful expression, the bartender gives him one.

“Should you . . . ?” Bucky asks, and points to the blood in the man’s hair. He scoffs, and waves Bucky’s hand away.  
“Please. Already been drinking – always got to celebrate a win, isn’t that right, boys?” He says, raising his voice, and raising his flagon towards the men at the bench.

Bucky turns on his barstool, surprised, when the men have very little to say to the new stranger.  
“That’s right,” The man says, addressing Bucky again, “They were a little salty earlier, about me beating them at the archery tournament. The Lord’s _own_ archery tournament, actually,” He says, and chuckles. “Sore loser, that one,”

Bucky shakes his head, and sighs: clearly, the men at the table are worse than just _sore_ _losers_ , given this man’s injuries. He hopes he took significant coin from them, as winnings, after all was said and done.

“I’m Clint, by the way. Barton,” He says, and reaches for Bucky’s hand. Bucky takes it, shakes it once, and lets go abruptly, whipping his hand away as if he’s afraid to burn. “Okay! Okay, gods,” Barton mutters, when he sees that. He doesn’t comment any further.

Bucky doesn’t offer his name.

“You avoided the question,” Barton tells Bucky, who rolls his eyes.  
“They look like fucking monsters,” He sighs wearily, over-simplifying for brevity's sake.  
“Yeah, but are they, like – you know?” Barton says, and elbows Bucky in the ribs, “Sexy?”

Bucky’s left arm, on reflex, catches Barton’s arm in a vice-tight grip, preventing it from moving or getting any closer, upon contact.

“Ow! Fuck,” Barton says, withdrawing his arm quickly. Bucky looks down, and lets go; he looks a little sheepish, at his own unconscious reflex to harm Barton, but . . . Well. He can work, on that. Not everyone reaching for him wants to hurt him. Not everyone wants to break him.

“. . . Sorry,” Bucky murmurs. He drinks deeply from his drink, as Barton eyes him reproachfully. His expression fades to a more curious, thoughtful one, as Bucky watches from the corner of his eye – as thoughtful as he can be, likely concussed, and drinking to boot.

“Well?” Barton persists.

Bucky thinks back: yes, they were . . . _A_ _ttractive_. But they don’t always have to be attractive in a sexual way, he knows, from experience.

This was not his first time fighting them, but succubi and incubi are generally not evil, or killers, by nature. He has even worked alongside some, before, against a greater threat; bartered with them, for potions and ingredients, where he’s come across them in the wilds or in more open-minded cities and towns. He’d even go as far as saying they don’t need to be feared or dealt with in the _vast majority_ of circumstances. But these three . . . They were killers, and unrepentant; while succubi are capable of reasoning, themselves, these ones were unable to be reasoned with. His least favourite kind of hunt, he’d freely admit.

Against him, they generally tend to take three broad kinds of humanoid forms. While each of their species has curved horns like those of a ram, and the hind legs of a goat, they are capable of . . . _Morphing_ , somewhat, into what their assailant finds attractive, which they can glean using their magics from the deep unconscious mind of their enemy. Bucky’s heard it referred to as their target's _soul_.

The first is usually a feminine form: usually with long, blood-red hair, reminiscent of someone to whom he owes too much; a debt, that he hasn’t repaid yet. She has a welcoming smile, and tells him that he is her finest work. It feels terrible, to him, to cut them apart with his silver sword, when they tell him such sweet lies.

The second, a dark-skinned, masculine figure: a caricature of someone he cares for deeply, smiling at him, and asking if he is okay; whether he wants to come with them, to relax, to follow them forever and be one. He finds himself furious, at that, wanting nothing more than to rid the world of the pretender, knowing he could never live up to the real thing, when it comes to the man that helped him gain his freedom.

The third is usually some kind of attractive young man: he talks about taking Bucky home, with him, and generic temptations regarding about resting together, _lying_ together – all things Bucky knows he can never do, given that he has no home to speak of, and no-one to go there with. It’s easier to kill that kind of incubus, than any other, given that it doesn’t look like anyone Bucky actually knows, or values the company of. He’d felt almost indifferent, as it’s blue eyes had stared out at him, before he placed it’s blond head in a sack with the others, ready to present to the council as evidence of a contract fulfilled. 

Three of them, each dead, despite their attempts at hypnotic words, and their own sorcery.

“Not necessarily,” Bucky answers Barton’s initial question.  
“Here’s a man who’s secretive about his greatest desires,” Barton says, a cheeky smile pulling at his lips, again, all seemingly forgiven.  
“I’m _not_ -” Bucky begins, but huffs out a frustrated sigh, instead of denying that he’s a man. There’s no point. He doesn’t even think Barton will remember this, later on, if his current state is anything to go by. He may not even remember Bucky exists; Bucky may never see him again.  
“Fine. I’ll tell you what _I_ want,” Barton offers easily. “I want a nice filly – fast one, too, not a pack horse,” He begins to list, “Boots with gold tips. A purple robe – you _know_ that kind of dye is hard to come by, around these parts,” He reasons. Bucky nods, conceding the point. “I want, uh . . . A wheel of cheese,” He continues, and Bucky finds a smile pulling at his lips despite himself. “And some more goddamn arrows,” He finishes triumphantly.  
“Admirable,” Bucky says sardonically.  
“If only I had won a significant sum of coin today beating a jumped-up little Lord at his own archery competition – ah, wait,” Barton says, winking across the bar, as the rich young men sit, looking even to Bucky as if they are _fuming_. He feels catharsis, as he sees how frustrated Barton is making them.  
“. . . Pretty lucky I haven’t told the town marshal about the truth behind my _trip and fall_ on the way home, too, or else that little Lord would be in a lot of trouble,” Barton mentions, chuckling to himself, again, at the fact that the rich men that he bested cannot do a single thing against him, for fear of the law becoming involved.

Barton turns to him, again:  
“We’re all looking for something, witcher. What do you think you’re looking for?” He asks, fixing Bucky with another thoughtful look.

Bucky sighs, and takes another drink. He looks Barton up and down, and considers the fact that he’s likely exchanged more non-hostile words with him than he has with anyone in months; perhaps, in fact, in a year. He’s a fool, by Bucky’s estimation, but . . . He may be onto something.

Everybody wants something. Everyone is looking for something. And perhaps, everyone needs someone to do that with.

At that moment, the inn door flies open again: Bucky’s eyebrows reach his hairline, as he takes in the appearance of the man standing there. Anxiety hangs off the man’s entire being like Bucky’s cloak hangs off his body: constantly there, a silent part of his affect the whole time. His pale coat, stained with various potions and fluids Bucky wouldn’t want to guess at, but lovingly stitched up in many places, lets Bucky know exactly who he’s looking at before he even sees his face.

“Clint!” Doctor Banner exclaims, striding quickly over to where Barton is sitting, sipping innocently, on his barstool.  
“Doctor Banner?” Bucky asks, surprised to see him – although, not completely. This is, after all, the same city he came to, to procure a map to find Natasha. He’s sent Banner various monster parts, and received various tip-offs about contracts from him, this last year. They’ve maintained an amicable, if distant, relationship.  
“Witcher,” Banner greets, with a quick smile, and a nod. “It seems you’ve been keeping an eye on my _friend_. Glad to see he’s still breathing,” He says, taking hold of Barton’s shoulder like he might an errant child by the ear.  
“Breathing? I’m drinking,” Barton says, and belches. Bucky, although bemused, smirks at Banner’s exasperation.  
“Heard downtown that he’d stumbled out of the Rose and Crown an hour ago. Clearly, he made his way here. Everyone said he was covered in blood – I can see that wasn’t an exaggeration,”  
“Oh, doc – don’t worry, everyone falls from time to time,” Barton says, waving the accusation away, and almost smacking Banner in the face as he does so.

Banner meets Bucky’s eyes, and there’s an understanding between them: no, it wasn’t a fall. Bucky moves his head ever so slightly in the direction of the men at the bench, and Banner’s eyes narrow as he looks at them. He purses his lips, as he puts two and two together.  
“. . . Come on. I gotta get him back to my lab. Unfortunately I can’t cure him of being _Barton_ , but I think I have something for that concussion,” Banner tells Bucky.  
“Hey!” Barton says, swatting deliberately at Banner, and missing completely.  
“Thank you, for keeping an eye on him,” Banner says, hauling Barton out of his seat with an arm around his back, displaying strength Bucky wouldn’t have thought he possessed, with very little effort at all. His eyebrows raise, although not in suspicion, as he finishes: “Come by and see me any time you’re in town, okay?”

Bucky nods, with a quick smile: he doesn’t like the look of Banner’s shop – too much dark, grey stone, the dungeon of a former castle that reminds Bucky very much of the place where he used to be _kept_ overnight, and the lab where he was experimented on. But for him, he thinks he’ll stop off, for ingredients and witcher-specific potion recipes that Banner has been providing him with over the last year. He’s admitted to Bucky that it’s been fun, brewing things that only a witcher can handle, and receiving Bucky’s feedback on each of them. _Swallow, Cat, white honey for toxicity –_ Banner knows his stuff. And what’s more, he’s more than willing to sell it to or share it with Bucky.

Banner hauls Barton from the inn, without much further action; Bucky finishes his drink, and takes his leave upstairs to his inn room. He decides to get a refund on it from the innkeeper: tonight, he’ll leave town for the nearby woods, and sleep beneath the canopy and the stars. He’ll be back, to see Banner – and, likely, to enquire about how Barton is getting on – but he wants to get out of here, and to the wilds, where the men eyeing him like one would a rabid dog would not dare try and confront him.

The events of the day do set a particular train of thought in motion, though, that perhaps he was in denial about prior to today. Things would have gotten a lot worse, and a lot quicker, had someone else not intervened, regardless of how brash and tactless they were. It’s the same during monster hunts, he knows, but without the opportunity to just _gut_ whatever threat presents itself to him. It requires more nuance, than all that, and a completely different skillset that they didn’t train him in, and actively _discouraged_ him from learning about, back at court. He had no allies, or friends. And at least partially because of that, despite his strength and his mutations, he had no _power_.

Maybe he likes drinking alone _usually_ , but . . . Well. Perhaps it’d be a good thing, every now and again, to have a partner.

Maybe one day soon, he’ll find that, for himself. _Or they’ll find me_ , he thinks, although he doubts it sincerely.

Destiny, he knows, had odd ways of working these things out. He’s cautiously optimistic that, this time, it’ll all work out, too.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!! Hope you are still enjoying this!! 
> 
> Warnings this chapter for: anxiety, guilt, a moment of confusion that could be seen as dissociation with lashing out . . . Plus tender content . . . 😳

_Present_

Bucky sits beside the fire, and stares deep into it, unseeing. He feels Sam’s presence beside him, quiet and steadfast, a silent guardian. Neither of them talk, although it goes unsaid that they can both hear the pained noises from downstairs.

It’s dark outside, and has been for hours. The cold hasn’t set in, indoors; but when they went outside, to check the head of the ghoul that Sam and Barton had hunted two days prior, it had been bitingly cold. Even with the freezing temperatures, however, Bucky could still see the face of one of his old comrades staring back at him when he examined what remained of the ghoul: his name was James, and he was from a land far away from this one. He was caught up by circumstance in the border skirmishes, and ended up a prisoner, just like Bucky. Just like the other prisoner-turned-ghoul, Bucky hadn’t known what had become of him.

Now he knows. It wasn’t a nasty shock, like that first time – but seeing it stare back at him with cold, too-human eyes, he had realised something that he hadn’t thought to check, with the other ghoul. When he looked very closely, he had seen that one of the pupils had almost looked . . . _Cat-like_.

Almost like his own. Almost like someone had tried, and failed, to make of James what they had succeeded to make of Bucky. The thought of it chills him to the core, in a way the winter’s night could never hope to.

Neither Bucky nor Sam feel the cold like humans do, but perhaps because of the cold Bucky feels on the inside, he was keenly affected when outside, for once. He had shivered; he hasn’t truly stopped, ever since, despite the warmth indoors. When he’s this on edge, everything but his left arm tends to tremble with inaction, sated only when he gets to hunt and kill whatever fearsome thing is causing the problem.

But this isn’t something he can hunt, or kill. He just has to wait for what’s happening to Steve to be over.

He feels like when he used to have mutated _witcher senses_ , so kindly done away with by Natasha those years ago: truly a blessing, given that nowadays more and more folks use magics to protect themselves from colonial forces, in these lands and beyond. If he were to have them now, they’d be constantly flaring, day and night, forcing him awake at all hours and running him ragged. He knows, now, that they couldn’t have been given to him in an effort to improve him: rather, they were a unique form of torture; a dog-whistle only he could hear, a constant drone, meant to keep him suppressed and in line. He couldn’t be more thankful they’re gone.

And yet . . . The same person who relieved him of them is downstairs, right now, with Steve.

And Steve keeps screaming.

The only reason he hasn’t gone down there is that Sam keeps convincing him not to; the time he came closest, standing at the top of the stairs, he heard one coherent thing amongst Steve’s shouts of pain: _please – don't stop – I’ll be fine – I can make it –_ and, well . . . At least Bucky knows it’s still _Steve_ , down there. Only Steve would be scared that someone would stop hurting him, if that hurt meant protecting Bucky, and others like him.

“He’s too damn stubborn to die,” Sam comments, as if he can hear Bucky’s thoughts. The truth is, he wouldn’t have to: they’re probably written all over his face; telegraphed, in every anxious movement; sung, on every stifled breath.  
“Here’s hoping,” Bucky says, his delivery falling flat.  
“Don’t need to hope. I know it – know _him_. You do, too,” Sam reassures him, and drinks from the cup of hot tea he’s made himself. He’d made one for Bucky, too: he hasn’t had any of it, yet, stomach feeling clenched and like it’s too small for anything to enter it, right now. Sam told him the tea would make it better, but the memory of his first drink in this house lingers in his mind, and he can’t shake the mistrust he has of both being drugged, and the horrible perceived betrayal of trust Natasha was forced into implementing hours ago. The one she’s currently acting upon downstairs.

Bucky shifts, and turns his gaze to Sam, interest piqued: Sam looks back at him, and he looks completely certain, in a way that tells Bucky he has no intention of lying to him.  
“I was the one who found him. After his parents – his whole _village_ went up in flames,” Sam recounts. Bucky recalls what Steve had said; how he can’t remember much about it, aside from waking up to Sam and a doctor trying to save his life.  
“You saved his life,” Bucky murmurs.  
“It was close,” Sam recalls, and looks into the fire, as he recalls the events of that day. “Saw the flames from miles away. Had a strong horse, back then, and fast – but even so, by the time I got there, it was all ashes. I . . . Found his parents,” Sam says, voice low. Bucky watches as he shakes his head, face rend in sadness, as he looks down into his drink. “What was left of them,”

“How’d he survive?” Bucky asks, frowning, not understanding how it can be that the whole town was _blighted_ but Steve – sickly, small, skinny Steve, with his bleeding lion’s heart – still lived.

Sam smiles down into his drink, though it’s still tinged in sadness: clearly not a happy memory.

“He was in the town well. Could’ve been there – hours, a day – I didn’t get there too quick, I couldn’t go any faster,” He says, guilt heavy in his voice. “He was about ready to give up the ghost – just . . . Floating there, white as a sheet. Didn’t realise he was still alive, at first. Then he started yelling at me to fuck off,” Sam says, with a low laugh. “Thought I was somebody else – or with someone else, maybe. Can’t say for sure. By the time I hauled him out, he was a dead weight. Had to load him up on my horse, like cargo, and get him to the doctor,”

 _Someone else_. Bucky wonders who Steve was so afraid of – surely, he wasn’t afraid of Sam, as a witcher? Why would he have been? He’s always said that his mother taught him tolerance, of witchers, from an early age. Plus, well . . . He doesn’t think it’s possible to do the things he and Steve do, experience that closeness, with someone whose entire kind you loathe and would rather die than be saved by. But, still – people change. Perhaps Sam changed Steve’s mind, for good, when it came to witchers.

He still wonders, though, what could have led to that hostile, scared reaction.

“He stayed afloat for that long,” Bucky repeats reverently, and finally takes up his tea. He’s lulled into a sense of familiarity, by Sam’s story, allowing him to overcome his anxiety at drinking it for a few moments. When the first sip goes down smoothly, and he keeps control of all his limbs and faculties, he relaxes and allows himself to enjoy it. It does calm him, a little, he has to admit.

“Sure did – but the smoke did a number on his lungs, I’ll bet – you know he’s always had trouble breathing,” Sam explains. Bucky nods, and smiles a sad, fond little smile down at his drink.  
“He does,” He says softly, mainly to himself.

He sighs, his smile gradually fading. Despite Sam providing the information for Natasha to perform the procedure on Steve, as she’s been doing downstairs for the past few hours, he’s grateful to him. He’ll be more grateful if Steve is okay, and still himself after all this, but – for now, he’s still incredibly glad for Sam, and all he’s done for all of them.

“I don’t know where I’d be without you,” Bucky says, though it’s a sentiment that Sam definitely already knows he harbours. “Either of us, clearly,” He adds – it’s true. Steve would have drowned, most likely, if not for Sam.  
“We help the people we want to help. I help the ones who deserve it,” Sam says, expression pensive.  
“But – you thought I deserved it. Even when I was with – _them_ ,” Bucky points out. “I don’t know that anyone else would have thought that,” He points out.  
“Well – maybe Steve would have,” Sam jokes, and Bucky smiles, despite himself. Sam schools his expression, and tells him, “What kind of witcher would I be if I didn’t save innocent folks from monsters?”

Bucky bites his lip, and tries not to think of whether he’s the _innocent folks_ or the _monsters_ in that analogy. He hopes the former – from Sam’s expression, he guesses that’s right.

He takes a deep breath:  
“Still,” He says, “I’m . . . Glad I have you, to go through this with. Didn’t have anyone there with me, when it was me downstairs – or in the castle. No friends to talk to – nothing,”  
“Everybody needs help, sometimes – hell, I know I do, most of the time,” Sam says.  
“Hope I can repay you one day,” Bucky comments.  
“I’m sure you will – just, don’t go offering me the Law of Surprise,” Sam jokes darkly. Bucky smiles, anyhow.  
“I won’t,” He promises. He raises his cup, to Sam, and Sam touches his to it in agreement.

They finish their tea in silence. At some point, they both fall asleep.

* * *

Bucky is awoken by the sound of heavy footsteps.

He blinks into wakefulness, still propped up in his armchair, staring into the fire: it hasn’t died down, likely as a result of Natasha’s magics. However, it’s clearly starting to get light again outside: he’s been there all night. When he looks to his side, Sam is gone: he’d told him, a couple of hours ago, that he would go and hunt for some game for them all come sunrise. Currently, very early morning sunlight peaks through the windows, the odd ray lighting up the wooden floor, throwing into sharp contrast the low, fire-lit light of the rest of the room.

Bucky sits up, and listens: the footsteps are . . . _Weighty_. Uncertain, too. He realises they’re coming from the floor below; up the stairs. Natasha doesn’t weigh enough to make footsteps that heavy, and gods knows Steve doesn’t – unless . . . _U_ _nless she’s carrying him._

_Oh, gods, she – he’s-_

He jumps up, staring at the stairwell, eyes bulging wide. He feels the need, for a moment, to brandish a sword – _steel, silver, it doesn’t matter, it’s not a logical urge anyway_ – an inbuilt response to fear carved into his soul by his former captors and his mutations alike.

His clothes feel too much, against him; their minute brushing making him sensitive, hyper-aware of any catches in the fabric; of the way his amulet sits against his bare chest, not covered by his shirt, slightly cold and usually reassuring. Right now, it feels too heavy, and too light, all at once. Every second is a curse, just waiting to see her carrying Steve’s broken body to him in apology.

He sees golden hair, first – _Steve’s hair, angelic, the way it catches the sunlight from between the trees, as he complains about monster guts on his clothes_ – before he sees . . . Anything else. _Anything else_ , here, meaning something he cannot truly comprehend.

Steve steps up, from the basement stairs, planting his bare feet on the hard wood floor of Natasha’s cottage. He stands tall – taller than before, _gods_ , maybe even taller than Bucky – and _broad_ , shoulders wide, physique exuding power. His hands hang by his sides, beside trousers too tight for him, now, too restrictive for powerful legs that make Bucky’s eyes bulge. His shirt, previously baggy, fits tightly, too.

He’s grown. He looks to have strength, and power, to rival that of Bucky – _hell_ , of _any_ witcher, anyone mutated to be stronger than a man.

But he’s still a man. When Bucky looks into his eyes, he still sees those same vibrant blue eyes, with circular pupils; not cat’s eyes. There’s no mistaking it, even in the dawn light. Steve is still human.

. . . But is he still _Steve_? Bucky stands completely still, his heart thundering in his chest, and he can feel it in his throat, as his usually so quick mind fails to comprehend what he’s seeing. _Who_ he’s seeing. Those eyes are so familiar, so proud and fierce, but they stare out from a face with a jutting jawline, previously so thin and small, now the complete opposite. Right now, that face looks worried, _distraught_ , even. Bucky wonders if it’s the loss of what he was before, or something else. He’s fifty-fifty, himself. He just has to know if this is Steve – _his Steve_. _Please, let him be my Steve._

“Steve?” He breathes.

Steve’s eyes catch his, and his face crumples: there’s a look like he’s just come home, like he’s been waiting for decades to see Bucky again, rather than just one long, agonising, dark night. He all but leaps forward, meeting Bucky’s hands, which outstretch without his say-so, simply reaching to feel that Steve is still there, and not a chimera, or a dream he’s having; a nightmare, perhaps, but a beautiful one, at least.

Steve barrels into him, and he’s forced to take a step back with the ferocity of it: Steve clings onto him tightly, and _yes_ , he’s taller than Bucky now, there’s maybe an inch or two in it. He’s got his head hooked over Bucky’s shoulder, and his whole body is wracked with sobs that Bucky feels he completely understands. Steve’s never been experimented on before. Steve’s never felt that kind of pain. Bucky wishes he could have spared him, but he didn’t get to, this time.

“Bucky,” He breathes out brokenly, and pulls away ever so slightly, just so Bucky can see his face. Up close, Bucky can see he still has those freckles; that spun golden hair, and his peaches-and-cream skin, not sickly as it so often was on their travels before.

“Bucky – it’s me,” He says, grip tightening for a moment, looking for recognition on Bucky’s face. Bucky gives it to him:  
“Steve,” He says, “What – happened?” He asks, although it’s clear to see. He can’t think of any other words to volunteer, right now.  
“I-” Steve shakes his head, but he’s smiling, even as a tear slips down his face. “I remember, now,”  
“What?” Bucky asks confusedly.

“I remember what happened – I remember you,” Steve says.  
“You still remember me,” Bucky repeats, relieved. Steve shakes his head, and re-emphasises:  
“No – no, I _remember_ you-” He says, “You know me,”

Bucky’s starting to worry, now: the procedure has done something strange, and wicked, to Steve’s head, perhaps. He doesn’t know what to think of it.  
“When we were kids – do you remember? We’d look at the stars, together – you loved them,” Steve says, and he’s rambling, now.  
“We’ve looked at the stars – just nights ago,” Bucky says, slowly, shaking his head.  
“No – we were-” Steve dips his head, and gives a great, shuddering sigh. “. . . They burned the whole place down. They took you away – that witcher. He took you away, he left me to die, and Sam – Sam saved me,” Steve explains.

Bucky takes a step back, and out of Steve’s grip. He looks over Steve’s shoulder, to the far-side of the cottage, as Natasha appears at the top of the stairs. She looks tired, and ties her fly-away hair up and out of the way. As soon as she’s done, she looks between Steve and Bucky warily.  
“What’s going on?” She asks.

“He – doesn’t remember,” Steve says, looking over his shoulder, and his voice sounds alarmed.

Bucky doesn’t feel he’s there, in the room, at that moment. Steve's words of recognition are a blessing, and they've cursed him. He can't understand them and they've sent him down a rabbit-hole in his own mind, scratching at an itch he never acknowledges, a wall he can't chip at. 

He’s thinking about trapped rabbits. He’s thinking about hating the smell of smoke on his clothes. He’s thinking about Steve’s thin face, red with the effort of breathing.

He shuts his eyes, bringing his hands to his head as he did yesterday, and pulling at his hair; he lists to one side, bumping into Natasha’s table, and knocking a cup from it and onto the floor. It smashes, and the noise makes him jump, and grab his knife – he holds it aloft, chest heaving, unseeing for a few seconds as the world slides on its axis, greying out his vision as he brandishes his weapon for a wild few moments of panic. 

When he comes back to himself, Natasha has stepped in front of Steve, _her work, her beautiful work_ , and is looking at Bucky with an expression of warning. She’s holding her hands aloft, and they glow a faint red, ready to fight him should it come down to it.  
“Barnes,” She says, piercing through the fog that makes up his mind, the haze that fills his skull, drifting out of his mouth, his ears, _his eyes-_ “Barnes!”

He takes a shuddering breath, and looks down at his knife: he doesn’t remember drawing it. When he looks up, Steve looks alarmed, and cautious. He looks . . . _Afraid_. Afraid, of Bucky.

He made that expression appear. _Him_.

“. . . I-” He stammers, “I didn’t-”

He didn’t mean to. He sheaths his knife, and lowers his twitching hands to his sides. He stares at Steve’s face, for a few moments. He doesn’t know why he’s glad that his nose is still crooked from fighting. At least he can walk without a limp from his ankle, now, he notes, pulling himself out of his own mind to be glad about something objectively good for a second.

“Bucky,” Steve says. Natasha looks back at him, and straightens; her hands stop glowing, as she acknowledges that the potential threat has passed. “. . . We grew up together. You’re my friend – _were_ my friend, before you ever saw me that time in that alley,” He explains.  
“I don’t remember – anything, like that,” Bucky says, shaking his head, and mad at himself for his panicked reaction to the cup smashing, and for his own inability to understand what Steve is saying to him. He’s not mad at Steve, however; just at himself. Steve would never lie to him, or harm him, on purpose. This is on him.

Steve steps forward, approaching Bucky carefully, now that he seems to have calmed down a fraction. He looks back at Natasha, for a moment, and gives her a nod; she eyes Bucky carefully, for a few seconds, then takes her leave to her attic room, giving them some time. Steve turns back to Bucky, knowing that what he’s going to say is going to be hard to swallow, for them both.

“Do you remember why you came to help me? That first time we met?” He says, although clearly it _wasn’t_ the first time, according to Steve’s own memories.  
“You needed help,” Bucky says, his voice gravelly with his remembrance. _Gods –_ _what if he hadn’t helped him?_ _He wouldn’t know Steve, at all. He wouldn’t have all this turmoil – but he wouldn’t know he could, that he could –_  
“You knew me,” Steve insists. “Somewhere-” He reaches up and, ever so gently and tentatively, strokes an errant lock of hair behind Bucky’s ear, minding the piercings he’s detailed the history of to Steve after his myriad questions over the months. “-somewhere, in there. You knew,” He posits, explaining Bucky’s own mind to him in a way that makes Bucky feel like there’s a secret everyone else knows, that he doesn’t. It’s likely the case – there have always been things that no one would tell him, at court, and after, like what happened yesterday, with his and Natasha’s deal.

But Steve’s trying to tell him. So he listens.

“We were – young. You were so young, when they took you,” Steve says softly, shaking his head at the traumatic memory. “Even if you don’t remember-”

He takes a deep breath, and lets it out harshly.

“-I’m still glad I found you, when I did. And I’m so sorry I didn’t before,”

Bucky’s eyes can only meet Steve’s, as he dips his head, slightly: he still has his hand on the side of Bucky’s head, and Bucky realises his own hands are reaching for Steve’s waist. When they make contact, they pull him closer on impulse, and Steve leans into it, body as eager as Bucky’s own.

Steve presses his forehead to Bucky’s, for just a second, before he kisses him gently on the lips.

Bucky has never been kissed, before – not that he remembers, anyhow. If they ever did this when they were younger – ever had a schoolboy crush on one another, ever longed for one another’s company – it’s all gone, now, for Bucky; it’s all there, freshly remembered in the forefront of Steve’s mind, agonising in being unshared.

But that doesn’t matter. Even without those memories, and even without that time they spent together when growing up, Bucky wants this. He _needs_ it. Even if Steve’s talking about some shared past that was ripped from Bucky’s mind, like a rug revealing a trap door to an endless void of swirling, grey-black nothingness where the rest of his life story should be . . . Bucky doesn’t care. It’s the Steve he’s known the last few months that he cares about, and that he wants to embrace, like this. He hopes Steve is doing this for the Bucky he’s known these past few months, too, and not some long-lost friend.

He thinks about Steve’s drawings: the way his hair looked dark in them, because of the charcoal – presumably, the same shade as it was before the Apothecary's experiments turned it silver-grey. Steve couldn’t have known, until whatever curse was lifted for him by Natasha, what he was doing; that he was drawing it as it may have looked when they were young, in the past. But the way it was lovingly drawn long, and the care and detail put into his arm, and his physique . . . It was different to anything Steve could have seen of him when they were just kids.

Yes – Steve loves the him from _now_. And if it’s possible for a witcher to love, then that’s what Bucky has for _this_ Steve, too. He realises he did, when Steve was smaller, too. Truly, everything and nothing has changed.

He kisses back, deepening it, and shutting his eyes. His hands bunch in Steve’s clothes, as Steve’s hand strokes his hair; the other caresses the back of Bucky’s neck, holding him close, but not forcing it, although Bucky can sense the newfound strength in Steve.

When they pull back, for a second, it’s only for breath: Bucky’s reminded of how Steve would gasp, and lose his breath, before. _Smoke damage_ , Sam had said, and in someone so young, it could have scarred him for life. But Steve, now – this Steve, the Steve he’s seen transformed, the Steve he knows – breathes easily, like this isn’t a monumental moment, for Bucky. Like it’s normal, if exciting, and wanted . . . Bucky likes to feel normal. He gets so little, of that. He feels comfortable again in his clothes, _in his skin_ , at that moment.

Steve pulls away, and Bucky follows him for a second, before he realises he has something to say. He pauses, for a moment, running his fingers through Bucky’s silvery hair. He smiles at the strands, softly, as he says:  
“I prefer you with long hair,”

Bucky’s eyes wrinkle, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to laugh or cry, until a bubble of laughter escapes him. Steve laughs too, at the absurdity of the situation. They stay there like that, for a moment, before Steve brings Bucky in for a tight embrace.

Bucky holds him close, not wanting to lose him to the new context of these uncovered memories, revealed to him but not to Bucky, taking him somewhere Bucky cannot follow. Steve wants him, still – wants him to follow, but doesn’t care if he can’t.

“You’ll remember, one day,” He says, sounding confident, in Bucky’s ear. It’s like he can’t even conceive of any other option – but Bucky, recalling every potion he was forced to drink, every spell and torture of the mind and body he was forced to endure, winces.  
“But what if I can’t?” He whispers anxiously.  
“. . . That’s okay, too,” Steve says, after a short pause. “I'm still gonna stay with you til the end,”

Bucky knows, at that moment, that he’d follow Steve just about anywhere: he’d do whatever it took, to make his life a safe and happy one. He’d traverse mountains, and seas, and kill monsters and bad men, just to make Steve happy. But he can’t force himself to do the one thing he would do without hesitation, if given a choice, despite the fact that it may bring him further anguish – he can’t force himself to _remember_ . Not his capture, nor the beginnings of his torture, nor his childhood friendship with Steve.

But maybe that doesn’t matter. Steve said it didn’t. He sighs into Steve’s neck, leaving a wet kiss against his thundering, steady heartbeat, so much slower and bolder than his old pulse was, as he closes his eyes, and acknowledges that things will be okay, either way.

He’s still got Steve – _his_ Steve. Whether he remembers when he first knew him, or not.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, please be advised, ! THE RATING HAS GONE UP TO E FOR EXPLICIT DUE TO THE CONTENT IN THIS CHAPTER !
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: further discussion of eating behaviours, discussion of hunting animals for food, explicit nsfw content (trans-friendly, you can decide almost every character's gender identity in this fic for yourself, your choice)

_Present_

They dine, that morning, all together. Sam has caught a couple of pheasants for a stew later, to thank Natasha for her work and hospitality; for now, she cooks them each eggs, as they talk easily amongst themselves.

Steve sits opposite Bucky at the kitchen table: he’s watching him carefully, and he knows Bucky is watching him back. He’s just looking away, whenever Steve looks his way, pretending not to stare. Maybe Steve will bring it up later, but for now, he has food to eat, and conversation to maintain.

Well – he’s not doing a great job of it. He’s barely keeping track of what they’re saying: he just feels so . . . _Different_. Everything from the hair on his head, to the way his skin feels against the cutlery and the wooden table; his muscles, his very _bones_ , feel stronger in a way that can’t help but make him feel joy. It’s incredibly alien to him, that’s true – and he’s obviously having difficulty adjusting – but he knows the change is a positive one.

Even now, still, he’s marvelling at how bad his vision was prior to his change, as he takes in Bucky’s individual eyelashes, where he gazes down at his food, moving it about with a fork, but not eating any of it. Steve knows he won’t, until there isn't a danger that the others will see him do so. All the others but Steve, of course – Steve hopes that hasn’t changed, since he himself has changed. He hopes Bucky knows that he’s still the same man that approached him in that tavern with charcoal on his nose and an earnest proposal on his lips, all that time ago.

He’s the same as that boy, he knows now, that wished Bucky had run away to get help, rather than trying to save Steve’s life, those decades ago.

His hearing, too, is massively improved: he has no trouble hearing Sam and Natasha’s jovial conversation, that much is true – but paying attention is another matter, given that he is so enraptured with his new view of Bucky. He can hear the steady thud of his heartbeat from across the table, stalwart and dependable. He wonders if he’s ever had anything so dependable in his life.

Perhaps his mother, and his father, as a child. Perhaps Sam, if he could find him, out there on the road.

He thinks, for a moment, about how Bucky said his parents were either dead, or abandoned him – _dead to him_. He swallows back the swell of emotion that comes with that thought, not wanting to get upset by something Bucky can’t even remember; not wanting to mention that they did love him, _they didn't choose this for him_ , and overwhelm him with something he doesn’t even mourn. He’ll get there on his own – Steve genuinely believes that – and it’s his own trauma to deal with, or not, one day, as he sees fit. Not Steve’s.

It does remind him of their original bargain, though:  
“Remember when I said I would pay you when we found out who – _what_ killed my folks?” Steve broaches, when there’s a lull in conversation, as Sam collects their plates, and Natasha pours water to clean them up. They make themselves scarce without needing to be told to.  
“I do,” Bucky says, still moving his food around. His eyes flick up, head not moving position; he watches Sam and Natasha, as they turn their backs to deal with the washing up. When he’s sure they aren’t looking, he scoops food into his mouth quickly. Steve’s heart jumps in his chest, knowing that nothing has changed between them, in terms of trust. Bucky eating in front of him is shorthand for _I still trust you. You’re the same man._ That would have made Steve dizzy, before; how, it just makes him smile.

“. . . Think I owe you a lot of coin,” Steve tells him, continuing to smile. Bucky’s eyes flit up to him, concerned, for a second, that he’s being serious – that he still sees what they have as strictly a business relationship – despite the fact that they kissed only about an hour ago. He’s a shrewd negotiator, when it comes to contracts, but he doesn’t think that kissing is part of many business dealings that he’s ever seen. None he’s been involved in, anyhow.

His posture relaxes, slightly, when he sees Steve smile that same crooked smile. He returns it with a small one of his own: that’s all Steve can hope for, perhaps, today, when Bucky just found out that Steve, whom he met months ago, is actually _Steve who’s known him since he was a child_ , and who knows his past better than he does himself.

Still – if there were anyone he’d trust with that knowledge in the whole world, it would be Steve. It’s just as well it’s him, then.

“I’ll take your company,” Bucky says in a soft voice. Steve’s smile grows wider, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and his cheeks flushing light pink. He watches, as a few concerned lines drop from Bucky’s face.  
“Eat up,” Steve says, dismissing his flirtation. Bucky does as he says, although he maintains eye contact for a few moments, not minding the scrutiny one bit.

He finishes his meal, and goes to stand up to dispose of the plate – and almost drops it, when there’s a loud tapping noise at the window to his left. His metal hand flies to where his dagger would usually be on his belt – he disposed of it, after his confused episode earlier, not wanting to scare any of his companions again with a repeat episode.

He looks to the window, and sees – _well_. A bird. A large, beautiful brown bird, with piercing eyes, looking at him critically with its head cocked to one side. It preens itself, simply waiting for the attention it is owed. Bucky realises that it’s a falcon, after a few long seconds of staring.

Sam brushes past Bucky:  
“Redwing?” He mutters, looking first at the bird, and then over to Natasha – she stares back, looking concerned. Bucky and Steve look between them, not understanding what’s going on.

“He belongs to me,” Sam says, as he opens the cottage window. “Delivers my messages,” He says. “Keeps me in touch with the Golden Falcon company,”  
“The merchants?” Bucky asks. Sam shakes his head.  
“They pose as merchants. They’re fighters – like-minded folk who keep an eye out for trouble. They always let me know when I’m needed – me, or another witcher,” He explains.

Bucky blinks: this whole time, he’d assumed that Sam’s compatriots, when he’d first come to the King's Court, were simple merchants. Of _course_ they weren’t – Sam wouldn’t have put civilians in trouble, like that. He may transport civilians, from time to time, Bucky knows – but he wouldn’t take them there, clearly.

Sam strokes the bird’s head reverently, muttering small words of approval to it, as he takes the message from the pouch attached to its leg. It doesn’t mind at all, it seems, being very used to his attention and care.

He unrolls the message scroll, and the others all watch as his eyes scan the page: as they do so, his face grows more and more concerned. His brow furrows, and he frowns, troubled. When he’s done, he looks between each of them, before his eyes settle on Natasha:  
“It’s Banner,” He says. She looks curious as she steps up to him, and takes the message from him, as he hands it over gladly.  
“Ghoul sighting. Same story – raw meat trail,” Sam says, and the blood drains from Bucky’s face as Steve watches him carefully.  
“When?” Steve asks, surprised.  
“Last night. Killing travelling livestock and their traders,”  
“Where?” Bucky asks, gaze flicking to Steve, as Natasha continues to read, verifying the story.  
“. . . Lynbrook,” Sam says, with a grimace.

Steve pauses, looking at Bucky, eyes heavy with meaning: Bucky looks at him, frowning in confusion, not understanding what Steve is trying to convey.  
“That’s near where Banner works, isn’t it?” Bucky asks, looking at Sam, who nods. But he still looks uncomfortable.  
“Bucky,” Steve says quietly. “That’s where we were - where we grew up,”

Bucky swallows, turning his attention to Steve: he looks almost reticent. Bucky’s mouth is dry; he hates seeing that expression on Steve’s face. He’s usually so brave, so stubborn, and yet . . . The second Bucky could be seriously affected by something or other, he gets this look about him like he’d rather avoid it like the plague.

“You think they’re trying to lure these two out?” Natasha asks Sam frankly, nodding at Steve and Bucky. Sam bites his lip, for a moment.  
“I think they’re trying to lure out _Bucky_ – they don’t know Steve’s changed. They wouldn’t have any need for him, except – well. To hurt you, Bucky,” He explains.

Steve remembers the witcher’s decree, in his memory of that day he lost Bucky, and almost lost his life: he remembers how he’d wanted Bucky, and the other boys, for the Empire’s experiments. But he didn’t need Steve. He’d wanted him to drown. Yet again, all these years later, he wants to take Bucky away again.

Steve isn’t going to let him, this time.

“We have to get to the bottom of this,” Steve says, standing with his fists clenched at his sides.  
“Steve,” Bucky says, voice hoarse.  
“No – they don’t get to terrorise you like this, Buck. Or any of us. Or the common folk,” He insists. “We have to get rid of the ghoul, and stop this,”  
“The ghouls are bait, Steve,” Sam tells him. “They want you guys,”  
“It doesn’t matter. Ghouls kill. People will die every day that we don’t get rid of that ghoul,” Steve insists.  
“Maybe – but it doesn’t have to be _you_ ,” Sam reminds him. “I can deal with it,” He offers.

Steve looks like he’s going to say something, for a second – but Bucky places a hand on his shoulder, and it stops him. He has a vivid memory, for a second, of when Bucky would throw his arm around his shoulders, or his neck; how his arm would dwarf Steve, wrapped tight and secure about him, but never restrictive. Now, they’re more equal: Steve is a little larger than Bucky, even, and still not even aware of his own strength. But he still feels protected, with the contact.

“. . . We should go back, though,” Steve says, finally, snapping out of his short stupor. “If it’s a trap, so be it. We survived the last one, and now we know what’s coming. We should go back home,” He says.

Sam sighs, looking between Steve and Bucky: Steve has a stubborn look of determination on his face that Sam recognises from the child he rescued decades ago; Bucky looks shaken, but ultimately equally resolute. He knows he isn’t going to talk them out of this one.  
“Fine,” He acquiesces. “But I’m going first. For one thing, Steve, you don’t even have anything that fits,” He points out.

Almost comically, Steve looks down at his own clothes: his sleeves and pants are too short, in a way that he’s constantly aware of, however unconsciously. But he doesn’t want to waste time:  
“I’m fine like this,” He asserts defensively.  
“Armour, Steve. He’s talking about armour,” Natasha comments with a smirk.  
“Oh,” Steve responds, unable to object to that.   
“I can provide you with some clothes, but you’re going to need specialist armour. I don’t think any I have left over from my – _guests_ , would fit you,” She comments.

Steve sighs, looking down at himself: it’s true. He’s not small anymore, and he’s certainly not of average build. Not many places are going to carry his size, or proportions, pre-made. It’s a new reality he’s going to have to adjust to.

When he looks up, he catches sight of Bucky staring at him: not at his body, as he himself just was, but at his face. This time, however, he doesn’t look away when Steve catches him looking: he smiles, amused at Steve’s slightly pantomime consideration of his own new physicality.

“. . . Fine. I can take a detour and get some armour. You can go ahead, if you want,” He says to Bucky. He immediately shakes his head.  
“No way,” He responds, “If I leave you, you’ll buy the cheap stuff. You need custom-made. That doesn’t come cheap,” He points out.   
“Would not!” Steve protests. Bucky gives his shoulder a small shove.  
“Please. I know what it’s like not to have coin. That gives you a certain mindset you have to shake off. You haven’t shaken it off yet, Steve,” He tells him. Steve huffs, but doesn’t protest.

“It’s settled, then. I’ll go ahead – I can meet Banner there,” Sam tells them. “It’s a few days’ ride. You two can meet me there, and we’ll all investigate together. We’re not getting caught off-guard this time,” Sam says. “. . . Unless you want to come too, Natasha?” He says, turning to her.  
“I don’t fight,” She says. “Not unless you want everyone there dead, including yourselves?” He asks, tongue-in-cheek.   
“Uh – not really, no,” Sam says in an amused voice, raising one eyebrow. She shrugs.  
“You know where to find me if you need me,” She offers.

There’s a pause, then, as Bucky drops his hand from Steve’s shoulder: Steve watches, as he looks at the table; around Natasha’s cottage, and finally up to Sam, although he can’t make eye contact.  
“I’m . . . Sorry I dragged you all into this,” He says in a low voice.  
“Are you kidding?” Sam says, trying to lighten the mood, “Any way I can get back at the Empire for what they’ve done to this place – to all the people, both sides of the border – that’s a bonus, to me. Ghouls, or no,” He explains, “I’ll never regret getting you out of that place,” He assures Bucky with certainty in his voice.  
“I’ll never regret going with you,” Bucky responds, equally sure.

He just hopes that neither of them, nor Steve, will regret going back to the town where he grew up, too. The thought scares him – but, just like Steve, and Sam, he’s not going to shy away, just because he’s afraid.

Fear, he can deal with. His friends, he cannot do without, or let down.

* * *

They take an hour’s ride to get to the nearest city: it’s little more than a large town, now, partially deserted due to the danger that comes with the proximity to the border. Fortunately, though, it still has a decent blacksmith, ready to work on the double to get Steve the armour he needs.

They go for a steel breastplate, for Steve, on Bucky’s insistence: although he wears leather armour himself, he insists that’s more suitable for his fighting style, as an agile swordsman. Steve, however, is all brute strength, and no nuance: he’s more likely to take hits than Bucky. Hence, he insists on having him more heavily armoured.

They’ve been in the city for two days, now, just waiting on Steve’s armour: it’s custom, as Bucky foretold, but with the kind of coin they have saved up, they can afford a rush job. Plus, it’s not like the blacksmith has a wealth of customers, anymore – there aren’t enough fighters, and there’s too little coin to go around. It all meant he was eager to please them. They’d given him extra, for his troubles.

The night after Steve collects his armour – plus, on Bucky’s insistence, a shield – they settle in for a night in their inn room, ready to depart for Lynbrook in the morning.

Steve is undressing: he gets very warm, now, in the night, despite the seasonal coldness. Bucky usually runs a bit warm, but Steve himself is a lot warmer. Bucky had thought he’d had a fever, when he’d felt his heat from across their shared bed, the first night they lay together in this room; but Steve was fine, fit as a fiddle, just radiating warmth like he does strength, now.

At least they need substantially fewer logs for the fire, needing it for light only, rather than warmth, too. Ice coats the windows, but inside the room, they are comfortable, even with the threat of ghouls and the Empire seemingly breathing down their necks.

That’s because they have one another.

Bucky watches him, from where he sits sprawled on the bed, cutting pieces off an apple and eating them piece by piece: he sees Steve’s muscles rippling under his skin, the way his bones used to, and he can’t tear his gaze away. He’d be equally enamoured, either way; but at least now Steve doesn’t shrink, and doesn’t appear outwardly uncomfortable, when he removes his clothes. He’d compared himself, once, to a plucked pheasant at market, when shirtless; now, and always, Bucky sees a lion. Inside, and out.

Steve turns to him, as he hears him bite into the last of his apple: he sets the core on the bedside table, balancing it there neatly, and slips his knife under his pillow as he usually does for the purpose of protecting them both at a moment's notice overnight. Steve smiles; pauses, for a second, and almost doesn't say anything in that weighty silence.  
“Glad you still feel you can eat in front of me,” He comments, finally.  
“Why wouldn’t I?” Bucky replies, almost too quickly. Steve pauses, again, biting his lip.   
“. . . Just, glad nothing’s changed,” He explains.

There’s a long, heavy pause. Bucky nods, and sets about removing his shirt in preparation for sleep, disturbing his hair as he pulls it free; he smooths his hair, as Steve watches him.

“It has, though,” Bucky mentions, at length. “Your body,” He notes, as if it’s not obvious. He doesn't want to talk about what else may have changed, too, out loud, at least.   
“I know that, Buck,” Steve says sarcastically. Bucky rolls his eyes – he bites his lip, though, clearly considering what he says next before he speaks:  
“You didn’t . . . _Wait_ to – to kiss me, until you were-” He gestures to Steve’s body, for a moment, in a way Steve would laugh at if he didn’t look so burdened at that moment, “. . . Did you?” He sounds genuinely unsure.   
“I didn’t know I’d be like this, after,” Steve says honestly.  
“No I – I know,” Bucky says. “But . . . You know, you could have, uh . . . You could have, even, um . . .”

 _You could have done it before_ , is what he wants to say. But he trails off: his eyes are caught, again on Steve’s body. He’s turned away, for a second, undoing the twine that holds his new trousers up, clinging tightly to his powerful legs and noticeably very pert ass alike. Bucky tries to stop himself from considering both. He can’t think about that – he has words to find.

Steve turns to him, and sighs:  
“Did _you_ wait til I was like _this_ , to let me kiss you?” He says. Bucky’s eyes widen, horrified at the question, as it’s turned back around on him.  
“No!” He splutters. “No, gods-”  
“Then you get it,” Steve says, turning away again, “I didn’t wait til after, either. Just – seemed like the right time,” He says, voice trailing off.

As his arms move, Bucky finds his eyes irrevocably drawn to Steve’s back, as the muscles work, strength inevitable in every movement: not controlled, and tight, like his own. It’s a raw power that Steve exudes – but with it, gentleness. Bucky notes, happily, that there is no sign of the gouges in Steve’s back that the ghoul gave to him, a week or so ago.

Finally, Steve turns around. His blue eyes stare out from his thoughtful face, dirty, slightly over-long hair falling in his eyes, before he sweeps it back idiosyncratically. Bucky swallows.

“. . . And what about now?” Bucky asks. “Is it the right time now?” He breathes.   
“For what?” Steve asks, eyebrow raised.

Bucky’s eyes betray him, at that moment, and he could curse himself to hell – but he can’t help the way they travel down, like a man tumbling from a cliff, to Steve’s trousers, where’s undone them, and they lie open. He can see Steve’s undergarments, the thin material bunching slightly.

And Steve smiles.

Perhaps a little more slowly than when he took off his shirt, moments ago, Steve hooks his thumbs over the waistband of his trousers, and drops them to the floor, before stepping out of them. Bucky’s immediately conscious of the fact that this is what Steve must have felt like, when he emerged from the lake a few days ago, with his undergarments stuck to him by water. Steve’s undergarments are perhaps slightly too small for him, even accounting for these ones being new.

Steve steps towards him: Bucky places his arms down beside him, palms flat against the bed, shoulders raised, as he looks up and into Steve’s blue eyes; brighter, than before, but still about the same shade of blue. His gaze, more wanting than intelligent, looks down and finds Bucky’s.

Steve reaches out, and takes Bucky’s head in one of his large hands: he threads his fingers through Bucky’s hair, to gently hold him; his other hand travels to Bucky’s chin, tilting it upwards, as he finally presses a kiss to Bucky’s lips.

They’ve kissed, since Natasha’s cottage: soft kisses goodnight, and chaste kisses good morning. But never discussed, and never like this: never with the heat, and the yearning, that Bucky feels in Steve’s insistent embrace. There’s a ferocity to it, like the first time. Bucky finds himself swept up in it, feeling it too: this isn’t something he’s ever grappled with; this isn’t a story he knows the end to.

“Steve,” He says, breathing heavily, fingers twitching against the bedsheets. “I-” But he pauses, just looking up into his eyes, again, and forgetting the common tongue. Steve uses the hand in Bucky’s hair, and undoes his hair tie, allowing his hair to fall about his face. Bucky doesn’t wear it like this, often: it suits him, Steve finds, although he knows it’s impractical for fighting.

But there's nothing to fight, right now. This time is only their own.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, and Bucky nods, like it isn’t a huge question with an even bigger answer. Right now, he can only answer in the affirmative, nuance and intricacies be damned.  
“Well let me know if anything – _isn’t_ ,” Steve says awkwardly, speech at odds with his confident, brash movements; Bucky nods quickly, all the same. He knows the words to the song, but not the dance that goes with it. He’s seen enough, and heard more, through inn walls and brothels he’s investigated as part of his contracts and hunts; the ones he’s stayed in, through necessity. He’s not a child. He’s just never been treated like this – softly, and well, and in this context, with consent.

Steve climbs on top of him: he slots his leg between Bucky’s, and slides onto the bed with him, never breaking contact with him. They settle, there, with Bucky’s head lowering down to the pillow, as Steve continues to pepper him with kisses – not just his lips, but his jaw, and his neck. One of Steve's hands is pressed against his chest, where his heart thunders on, while his other arm holds him up against the sheet. Bucky can only just feel them, so absorbed in the way Steve's mouthing at his skin. 

Bucky can hear his own pulse, uncharacteristically fast, and Steve’s, which matches it. They harmonise, creating a cacophony. Bucky breaks from Steve, for a second, just to listen.

“Can you hear?” Bucky asks hazily. He doesn’t explain what; luckily, Steve understands, and nods.  
“Yeah. I hear it,” He says. “. . . Remember how you always said my heart was too fast. Like a rabbit heart,”  
“You were never a rabbit,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “Never,”

Steve smiles, and kisses Bucky’s neck: this time, he’s more forceful, and even more insistent. Bucky draws in a sharp breath at the sting, and grasps onto the sides of Steve’s arms, likely bruising, and the sharp metal fingers likely scraping, although Steve doesn’t care. Bucky’s pulling him closer, wanting desperately for more. When he lets his breath out, he makes one of those noises that he’s heard, stifled through walls, as he’s tried to sleep, so many times. One he never thought would come out of him.

“Bucky,” Steve says, kissing back up to his mouth again. Bucky nods, his slit-like pupils blown wide, as he find's Steve's face. “Are . . . Have you-?”

Bucky doesn’t want to lie. He doesn’t want to give the wrong impression.

“No,” He huffs out. “You . . . ?”  
“A few,” Steve grits out. Bucky can feel him, through his trousers, against his thigh. It’s clear he wants him desperately: he regrets there ever being a time that he didn’t make it one hundred percent crystal clear that he wanted him back. Hopefully Steve knows that, by now. Clearly he can feel him too.

“Do you want to-?” Steve asks, watching Bucky’s face carefully. He nods, eager:  
“Yes,” He says, although his voice is stifled. It only gets worse, when Steve starts moving, rutting against him like a man possessed.

Bucky feels like an animal. It’s not the first time he’s felt it, that’s for sure – but none have been like this, none have been a result of _need_ , of primal _want_ , always the result of others’ aspersions about him. But if Steve has aspersions then, well, Bucky hopes they’re all that he thinks he will die without Steve – and _gods help him_ , he feels he just might.

Bucky lets go of Steve, for a moment, and shifts his hips up against him, making him hiss; Bucky uses the movement to quickly remove his trousers and undergarments in one go, pulling them down quickly, without moving from under Steve. Steve gets the message, and sits back on his feet, pulling Bucky’s clothes from his legs, and throwing them carelessly to the floor. He dives back in, like a man coming up for air: but this time, Bucky’s ready. He uses both his hands, metal and flesh, to take good handfuls of Steve’s ass, pulling him forward, encouraging his thrusts. Steve jumps, but quickly gets into the desperate rhythm Bucky wants from him. 

It feels dirty, it feels rough, and it feels completely _needed_. Whether Steve’s small, or big – Bucky’s wanted this, with him, for a long time. He can admit to that, now. He’d admit to _anything_ in a heartbeat, right now, as long as Steve doesn't stop moving against him, doesn't stop providing that sweet friction.   
“That’s it,” Steve whispers, “Come on-”

Bucky groans, head pushing back insistently into the pillow, as Steve buries his face in Bucky’s neck, sucking and biting and doing his worst in a way that makes Bucky’s skin feel too tight, too sensitive, but needy like he’s never felt before. He’s gulping in breaths like he can’t process them, and he must be driving Steve mad, with the way he’s thrusting against him, right now. His eyes are screwed shut, and Steve watches his face, so elated he almost looks in pain, as he keeps making sweet, desperate noises in time with Steve's own.

It drives Steve wild. He shifts, in a half a second, and adjusts his angle in a way that makes Bucky yelp:  
“Steve-!” He cries out, but it’s useless to say anything now – it’s too late, he’s gone, coming with Steve’s name in his mouth, Steve’s mouth biting into his neck, Steve’s hand on his waist. Bucky grips onto Steve’s ass, encouraging him, and thrusting wildly and unevenly into him as the moment drags on.

Steve can’t tear his eyes away, withdrawing slightly to watch how Bucky’s eyes screw up even tighter; how his eyebrows draw together, and his lips part, mouth hanging open, jaw bouncing with every strong thrust. When he opens his eyes, he blinks hard, still with that same blissed-out and somewhat shocked expression. He marvels at the way his movements are so erratic, so uncoordinated, in a way Steve has literally never seen from him before, with need. He’s never seen Bucky need, or even want, anything so badly in his life: he’s never shown how hungry, or tired he was, or even indicated that he needed to come up for air, when he’s underwater in a lake. Even in a fight, he’s calm and collected – but now, _gods_ , his hips snap like he’s possessed by something greater than himself, a _want_ that supersedes all the training tortured into him.

Steve doesn’t stop, though: Bucky clearly doesn’t care, still gripping onto him, still guiding him and pulling him forward, in a way that makes Steve dip his head, again, burying it in the crook between Bucky’s shoulder as his neck, cheeks burning. His movements build up, mirroring Bucky’s own, seconds ago, as he strokes the length of himself against Bucky’s thigh, rather than between them as he was before, not wanting to overstimulate him.  
“Show me,” Bucky grunts, and Steve feels his strong metal hand grip his jaw, insistently pushing his head away, so Bucky can stop him from hiding; so he can see his face above him, red and blissful. His flesh hand still on Steve's ass, his metal hand settles, gripping the side of Steve’s face, and his jaw, short of breath and panting in time with Steve, “Please – show me-”

Steve looks into Bucky’s cat’s eyes, watches his rapt expression, and does as he says.

“Buck-!” He whines, and knows he probably looks stupid, looks a goddamn _fool_ in a way that Bucky didn’t seconds earlier, but he’s coming hard, so he’s beyond caring. He lets out noises halfway between sighs and a cries, as he continues to thrust, spending a few seconds not thinking anything at all, except that this feels better than he could have imagined, riding out his pleasure, with Bucky beneath him. He doesn’t recognise that he’s shut his eyes, until they’re open again, vision swimming for a second, before he identifies Bucky’s enthralled expression, somewhere between fascination and ecstasy.

He slows down to a stop, finally stilling; he props himself up on a forearm, boxing in Bucky’s head on one side, and using his other hand to push his own wild, slightly sweaty hair out of his face again. Bucky watches his fingers move, seemingly incapable of forming words, as he watches Steve. Steve tears his face away, and looks down at the mess between them: it’s substantial, of course, and his undergarments are _ruined_ where he didn’t think or care to take them off in his haste.

“. . . _Gods_ ,” He says, finally.

And Bucky laughs: when Steve looks up at his face, eyebrows raised, he’s got this wide smile, carefree in a way he hasn’t been in weeks. His arms lie against the pillow on either side of his head, pliant with inaction, as if in surrender. Steve raises an eyebrow, and smiles too.

“. . . Think we should buy you some new shorts,” Bucky says, voice gravelly from fatigue.  
“ _We?_ ” Steve says, voice lazily amused. “It’s your fault, Buck,”  
“Take responsibility, Rogers,” Bucky says, shoving his chest slightly. Steve’s quiet laughter dies down, his breathing finally normalising, alongside Bucky’s. They catch one another’s’ eyes, for a long, lingering second. Bucky props himself up, and kisses Steve, having caught his breath sufficiently to do so, before relaxing back against the pillow again. Steve looks so peaceful, so _smitten_ as he does so, it makes his heart speed up all over again. Steve must hear, when it does. How could he not? 

Finally, Steve says:  
“. . . You’re beautiful,” He pauses, for a second: “Always have been. Always will be,” He says. Bucky bites his lip.  
“I-” He goes to deny it, but the way that Steve’s flushed face stares down at him, defiant, and ready to argue the point despite - or perhaps because of - his affection for Bucky, makes him realise that he can’t. Instead, he finishes it with a cliché, but one he could never admit until his guard was down, until he could admit it to himself, as he is now, in this gentle moment:  
“. . . Love you. I love you,” He finishes.

Steve stokes a hand through Bucky’s wild hair, sweaty and all over the pillow beneath him, for a few seconds; he doesn’t keep Bucky waiting for long, just savouring the memory of this moment, before he replies:  
“I love you too,”

After they clean up, they stay there, in one another’s arms, until they both fall asleep, warming one another through, no covers required.

* * *

They’ve been travelling for days, now, in Sam’s footsteps; making their way South, using Bucky’s map – and Steve’s newfound memories – to navigate to a place they both once called home. A place that only one of them can remember.

They approach from the North: Steve told Bucky he had gone North, the day of the invasion, before all hell had broken loose. Steve said he himself had stayed in town, and gone to market; they’d been separated, and Bucky had been singled out, after he’d returned.

Apparently, Bucky had stood up to the witcher than had taken him. Bucky can believe it, given that he recalls _volunteering_ in place of his fellow captives, by antagonising the Apothecary, thus cementing his status as one of his favourite chew-toys. He and Steve, it seems, have never been smart when it comes to their own self-preservation. But they try and look out for others. And as they walk through the forest, Steve clinging to his crossbow, and Bucky with his hand on the hilt of his dagger, swords heavy against his back, they are both keenly aware that when it comes to the safety of one another, their instincts are finely honed.

They left their horse prior to entering the forest, making sure that whatever they find at Lynbrook, she won’t be harmed. They’ve made their way through the trees, and they’re approaching the treeline now: the forest is on top of a hill, and at the bottom is where the burned-out remains of the wrecked town lie. From where they’re making their way through the underbrush, now, they can each just about make out the blackened, ashy skeleton of buildings.

Bucky watches his surroundings, carefully, drawing strength from Steve, as he walks beside him: he glances at him, and Bucky takes in his uncomfortable expression.

Despite his discomfort, Bucky can’t help but take a few seconds to admire how beautiful he is: his appearance has always charmed Bucky, of course, but seeing him armoured and standing proud is something that threatens to leave Bucky breathless every time he catches sight of him. Today, Bucky notes that there are promising beginnings of a beard on Steve’s face: he had always shaved, before, explaining self-deprecatingly that any attempt at facial hair he could have mustered would be embarrassingly disappointing. Bucky doubts he would have seen it that way, of course, but he wasn’t about to argue with what Steve had wanted. But now, well – it seems the procedure enhanced a lot of things, about Steve, including his ability to grow facial hair, igniting his desire to give it another shot.

Steve’s face, at that moment, is one of grim recognition, Bucky knows, though it’s not one that he himself can empathise with. He doesn’t recognise his surroundings.

That is – until Steve grabs his arm, pulling him to a quick halt: Bucky searches his face, and sees him looking at the floor, at Bucky’s feet. Bucky follows his gaze, to the floor beneath them. There, where he was about to tread, is a small, home-made trap, ramshackle and rusted with age. It’s mostly covered in leaves; snapped shut, useless, in no danger of catching or hurting anything – aside from Bucky, if he were to trip on it.

The sight of it pulls at something deep within Bucky’s mind: slowly, he crouches down to the ground, as Steve watches him. He reaches out, with his metal hand, not wanting to accidentally cut himself on the weathered, dirty metal wire. He understands, acutely, how one would put such a trap together; how they’d leave it, to catch – _to catch-_

_Rabbits._

His eyes widen, for a second; he closes them abruptly, squeezing them shut, pain blossoming across his brow. His metal hand still on the trap, he uses his flesh hand to rub at his brow, trying to ease the pain.

_Make us proud, like you always do._

He grunts, the image of caught, trapped rabbits in his mind. Dead, lifeless by the time he got back to his traps, laid the day before. Bloodless, and hopefully not – _hopefully not too cruel – we need them, we need to eat – not just us – he does, too – Steve’s family – Steve needs-_

_\- but come home safe-_

“Bucky-”

Steve’s warning cuts through his remembrance, and Bucky’s eyes fly open, seeking out Steve: when he sees him, for a moment, he sees the old Steve – but much shorter, thinner, more frail, _younger_ – before he blinks, and sees Steve as he is now, gaze alarmed, pointing at something-

There, on a tree beside the exit to the forest, is a bright red, bloody steak: what meat it is, Bucky couldn’t say. It’s nailed there, to the tree, and Bucky can see that it’s dripping blood; it’s fresh, with only a few drips having made their way down the tree bark, and to the forest floor below. It can’t have been there longer than a few hours, at most.

He looks at Steve, who appears concerned; stormy, too, hating the taunting that’s clearly been awaiting them, despite their careful routing towards the town, taking the woods so as not to be seen; so as to play to Steve’s strengths, and knowledge of the area, however old.

He doesn’t like this. Bucky doesn’t like it either, but they have to keep going. Whatever is waiting for them, they know that Sam and Banner are likely ahead of them, and could potentially be in trouble, if this warning sign is to be believed.

Finally, Bucky looks past Steve, and through the trees: there, down the hill, Bucky can see the town. And, even without his excellent vision, and Steve’s vision much improved, they can both see something that alarms them.

There is smoke rising from the already eviscerated town.

Someone has set a fire, again. Whoever it is, they both know, is no friend to them.

But they must go on. And so they do. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the climax of this fic, I hope you like it, this has been a Journey!! 
> 
> Warnings in this chapter for: discussion of childhood trauma, violence, manipulation, depersonalisation/dissociation, all that canon-typical stuff you hate to see you know?? anyway,

_Present_

The ground is still scorched. Nothing in the town is still alive, even now; Steve doesn’t know exactly how many years it’s been, but he’d say at least twenty. He’d wager that some evils seep too deeply into earth for it ever to recover.

The evil that happened, here, could have doomed it forever: it’s not unique, and is in fact horribly mundane for the times and the land that they live in. But nonetheless, even being back on this cursed ground makes Steve feel so angry he has to stop himself shaking.

Beside him, Bucky paces carefully, silver sword aloft: he’s not taking any chances. Someone, or something, has set a fire in the town square. It wants them to see it.

When they approach, from the alleyway between two burned wrecks of houses, Bucky feels . . . _Strange_. Everything around him seems so new, but at the same time, his body is screaming at him that it knows exactly how his feet will fall; knows exactly where his altered eyes will jump to, as he enters the town square. He knows exactly where market stalls would be placed, and where people would gather and dance, if they hadn’t been burned to ashes, or abducted.

He can almost see them now. But he doesn’t know them.

He spots the well in the centre of the town square, and he slows, slightly: Steve looks back at him, slowing his pace equally, and wonders. Bucky’s face is troubled, certainly, staring at the bricks of the well, where they still stand. The small roof Steve can remember staring up at for hours and hours, from within the well itself, is long gone.

Everything is deathly quiet. There’s nothing here, anymore; nothing alive. _Blighted_ – this place is literally cursed. _That’s why I couldn’t remember anything before Nat’s procedure_ , Steve thinks to himself, and bites his lip. He looks at the stone houses that line the town square, their thatched rooves and wooden doors long gone, and remembers that one was his, once. One was where his mother tucked him into bed at night, and where his father helped him take his medicine, when he had one of his many illnesses.

One was where Bucky would sit and talk to him for hours, lulling him to sleep, when he needed his rest. Watching over him, protecting him, whenever his parents couldn’t.

One is where Steve, just a _child_ , realised he would follow Bucky anywhere, and do anything for him. Nothing – and _everything_ – has changed. Being here has thrown it into stark contrast. The contrast is never greater than when he looks at Bucky’s face, so similar and so _altered_ that Steve almost can’t stand not to scream about it.

As they approach the centre of the square, they draw closer to the source of the smoke they had seen from the trees: a small bonfire, whose flames are dwindling, almost completely out. Bucky crouches beside it, when he notices something on the ground: material – a cloak. A deep red cloak.

He recognises it, and his heart sinks. _Sam’s cloak_ – it’s owner is nowhere to be seen, and that worries Bucky. He was supposed to go ahead, and investigate.

“Bucky?” Steve asks quietly, tone uncertain, as he sees Bucky’s stormy expression.

They both hear laughter, close by. The second the silence is broken, Steve raises his crossbow, looking around, and Bucky rises in an instant, readying his fighting stance. They look around quickly and, finally, they watch as a figure emerges from one of the burnt-out houses.

Shrouded in the shadow from the stone walls, the figure leans against the doorway, as the derisive laughter dies down.  
“. . . Even after all this time – you still think you deserve your name,”

Bucky feels bile rise in his throat, a sick, cold dread spilling down his spine, grabbing onto his very bones, and forcing him to remain stock-still in utter, all-consuming fear. It’s a fear brought on by recognition.

He remains silent, just staring for a moment more in denial. Beside him, Steve draws almost imperceptibly closer to him. Then, the figure moves.

He steps, with heavy movements, into the grey light: Bucky physically withdraws, as he sees the figure of his former handler. Steve’s hand flies in front of Bucky, protective instinctually of him, as he sees the face of the man that tried to murder him years and years ago, and damn well near succeeded. The man who stole Bucky from him, and the man that near enough stole both of their youths, if not their whole lives.

A witcher. But hideously, grotesquely malformed.

They both watch, as the man’s scarred face, almost skeletal in some areas, twists into a mocking smile. From where they stand, they watch as he unties his cloak from about his shoulders, and it falls to the ground, revealing the extent of his transformation.

Instead of armour that covers him completely, the witcher has had a lot of his leather armour torn roughly away, theatrically exposing the horror that lies beneath – _after all, the Empire wants their witcher soldiers to scare the common folk as much as they can_. Through his armour, they can see exposed ribs, shrouded in black smoke that trails out from between them, drifting into the still air. He is death incarnate, flesh rotting and disintegrating in several places. As Bucky watches, he remembers: he ran his former handler through with his steel sword, before leaving the imperial city forever. The areas where his ribs appear broken, mangled, spewing smoke like a waterfall – _that’s where his sword exited the front of his chest._

“Maybe you’re surprised to see me, wolf,” Rumlow says. “. . . But you know how good the King’s Apothecary is at _experimenting_ ,” He says, smile falling from his face, as his countenance turns murderous. Bucky, however horrified he is, stands tall, not feeling in the least bit guilty. He remembers the many, many tortures he suffered at the hands of the Apothecary, of course. They were simply of a different type to the ones the witcher in front of him inflicted upon him – but both were equally brutal.

He sheaths his silver sword, and draws his steel one, as he consciously tries not to relive those memories.

“I wouldn’t think of running, by the way,” Rumlow mentions, as if either of them would consider it for even a second. “Those ghoul reports weren’t overstated – they’re circling the town as we speak, you know,” He explains. “Under my _axii_ sign – all I have to do is whistle, and they’ll come. The things you can get a beast to do, with just a little spell,”

Bucky grits his teeth, refusing to be intimidated as he steps toward them.

“Do you know,” Rumlow says, pacing towards them, as they back up, keeping their distance, “What kind of hell I’ve lived through, all these years? Because of you taking a dirty fucking shot at me? . . . Pathetic, really,” He says. Bucky remembers when he’d called him that, before. He remembers every single time.  
“If you suffered, it’s because of the King,” Steve says defiantly, “Not Bucky,”  
“And what about you? . . . Doubt you got like _that_ on your own – what did he used to call you? Oh, yes – little _Stevie_ ,” Rumlow recalls, still staggering towards them. “Bet it hurt, that kind of magic. Bet it was because of him, too,” He adds. “See? . . . We’ve both suffered, because of him,”  
“Because of _you_ – all of you,” Steve growls, when Bucky can’t muster words.

“Had to beg the King, to let me go after you,” Rumlow freely admits, ignoring Steve. “Wanted to for years. Every single time I was on that table, I wanted to survive, just for this – so I could present you back to him, and earn back the respect you took away,” He says, clearly angry; tone slightly unhinged, as he makes it clear that he has, indeed, suffered in ways they can both probably easily envisage, given the pain they’ve both felt in order to be standing where they are today.

“. . . Eventually, he said yes,” Rumlow says, and starts to deviate from his path, edging closer to the well, rather than towards them. Bucky’s eyes narrow, suspicious of him. Steve glances between the well, and Rumlow, with nervous eyes. He feels himself break into a cold sweat: things have changed, of course, but not so much that the sight of his attacker standing next to the place where he nearly died doesn’t make his heart beat faster and harder beneath his breastplate.

“See, he knew I had a plan – with the Apothecary. Resurrect your dead comrades – torture townspeople in the area until I found out where I could leave ’em, that you’d be contracted to kill ’em. Leave the odd _steak_ , here and there,” He continues. “Knew I could get you here. And then, well . . .” He says, trailing off, with a grin.  
“Where are Sam and Doctor Banner?” Steve asks, suspicious, and more than done with Rumlow's monologuing.  
“Oh, long gone – Bitter March took them. My own men. My very best men – but they let me have you. You’re the one I’m here for, wolf,”

Steve can see that he’s looking directly at Bucky; into his eyes, with a look of poorly-contained glee, as if he’s just moved to declare _checkmate_. Steve thinks that his triumphant, sinister expression is premature, for a second – but as the moment drags on, his eyes venture to his side, where Bucky is standing, frozen.

The expression on his face is one of horror; terror, and regret, and – _oh – oh, gods –_ recognition.

_He mean a lot to you, kid?_

In place of the Rumlow of today, decaying and rotting from the inside out, Bucky sees a younger, although still scarred, witcher – much taller than he was, much stronger – and he’s – he’s holding Steve up by his shirt-

_Of course, and always –_

He was right here – right here, held by guards, by snickering men laughing at the distress of a child, he was just a child, _they were both children, oh gods have mercy_ –

_Does he?_

How could he have said anything but the truth? How could he have saved Steve from what happened? How could he have made it so it happened to him, instead?

_Yes – !_

Oh, gods, he had Steve by the neck, standing by the well like he is right now, and Steve couldn’t fucking breathe, he couldn’t escape, he was squirming and he couldn't – he-

_That was your first mistake._

He threw him into the well. Bucky’s best friend, drowned, and dead forever. Rumlow would tell him that every single day.

. . . Well. Until they finally cracked making Bucky forget him completely. That day, Rumlow had been sad, mentioning that he’ll miss seeing him cry about some _runt_ – Bucky didn’t, _couldn’t_ know what he had been referring to, anymore.

But he knows, now. He knows, and by the gods, he’s angry.

“Bucky!” Steve yelps in warning, but he’s gone – he runs at Rumlow with uncoordinated _rage_ the likes of which Steve has never seen, something emotional between a roar and a scream echoing through the dead town as he tries to cut Rumlow down. But he’s ready – _of course_ , he knew this would happen, of course he was ready, of course he knew that by coming to this place that he could break the spell and make Bucky lose his fucking mind-

Steve watches, horrified, as history repeats itself: Rumlow’s arm, rotting away to the bone, grabs Bucky by the neck with blistering force provided by some dark curse; he looks up at Steve, for a second, where he starts forward. But he pauses, when he sees Rumlow has a knife to Bucky with the hand not around his neck; he’s whispering something in Bucky’s ear, some evil incantation, _gods, what’s he doing? What’s happening – Bucky remembers, but he’s-_

After a second, he lets Bucky go: he stands, statuesque, facing away from Steve. In the silence that follows, Steve thinks he can hear the ghouls, chattering and snarling, as they circle the town. It might be just his imagination, it might be real – but he feels the danger, acutely afraid for both of them, as Bucky just stands there. He thinks his mind might be trying to distract him with a lesser fear – to him, ghouls are less terrifying than the way Rumlow backs up a step, leaving Bucky standing there perfectly still. At least he isn’t touching him, anymore.

Steve eyes Rumlow keenly, looking at the knife he’d used as a deterrent from letting Steve approach: it’s clean, glinting in the watery grey light of day. Steve stares, confused, as Rumlow's face tears at the corners of his mouth with unapologetic, malicious glee. Black smoke pours out from between his teeth, where they’re exposed by the ripped skin of his cheeks.

But Steve isn’t looking at him, now: he’s watching as Bucky turns towards him. As he turns, Steve can’t see anything wrong, for a second – for one, blissful second, he’s just glad that he’s not bleeding from anywhere.

. . . But that doesn’t mean he’s not hurt – not _different_. His eyes are glazed over, as if covered by a dull film, barely moving, where they look idly ahead of him. Steve doesn’t know if it’s a trick of the light or not, but his face looks as grey as the town around them, and just as lifeless. Steve can barely see his chest rise or fall. Where his hands hang down by his sides, his right grips almost gently to his steel sword, all aggression gone from his movement. It’s as if all life, all _hope_ , has been sapped from him.

“. . . Bucky?” Steve asks.

Bucky’s eyes don’t move. He doesn’t blink, or look up in acknowledgement.

“Don’t think he’s going to answer to that, anymore,” Rumlow laughs. “But, still. It’s fun to see you try,” He adds. He steps up behind Bucky, and puts his hands on his shoulders. Steve watches, horrified, as he takes hold of Bucky’s hair in a twisted parody of affection, and brushes it almost tenderly over one of his shoulders. He leans in close to his ear, and says, “Wolf – time to catch another rabbit,”

As if suddenly brought to life, Bucky’s posture changes entirely: he becomes rigid, spine like a taught piece of rope that could fray in an instant with the pressure pulling at it. His right arm raises his sword; he goes to raise his left, as well, but all three of them watch as it fails to comply. Bucky spares a second, _couldn’t be more_ , to look down at his left arm in troubled contemplation.

But he’s worked without it before. He’ll work without it, again.

He spins his steel sword in his right hand, and starts to pace forward: there’s a look on his face, as he approaches Steve, that has never been directed at _him_ before. Only at monsters – at men and creatures that have hurt and killed, unrepentantly, and deserve to die. Bucky, as he is now, believes Steve to be one of those, perhaps.

Steve knew – has _always_ known, that Bucky never had any choice but to do what he was told, when he was part of the Bitter March. He knew he hurt, and killed – men, women, _children_ – but he had never imagined what it was like, what it even _looked like_ , the moment he lost autonomy with words so easily whispered, forcing him to commit crimes that will haunt him forever, against his will.

He backs up, and calls to his friend:  
“Bucky – Bucky, listen to me,” He says, and reaches for his shield where it’s stashed on his back, “This isn’t you, anymore – it never was,” Steve reminds him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, as he watches Bucky approach unperturbed, with his left arm dangling lifelessly at his side, he recalls that Natasha warded the arm from outside interference, in a way she couldn’t the rest of his body and mind.

It’s the only part of him doing what Bucky – _the real Bucky_ – would consciously want, at this moment. It’s the only part of him not trying, against his will, to hurt Steve.

“Can you hear me?” Steve asks. Bucky raises his steel sword; Steve knows immediately when he’s about to strike, knowing intimately by now the small ways that he telegraphs his strikes without even knowing it, having seen and _drawn_ enough of his fighting to be able to anticipate his moves.

He uses his shield to parry Bucky’s blows, the sound of his sword hitting Steve’s shield resonating through the air; Bucky’s eyes widen, where Steve can see them, _so close_ , with the visceral sound of it; the bad associations he clearly still has, awakened in this unconscious, brainwashed state. He moves quicker and quicker, trying again and again to hit Steve.

He can’t do it. He’s trying desperately, teeth gritted, as Steve pleads with him:  
“Stop! – Bucky, it’s me!” He insists, “You know me!”

Bucky can’t hear him, or he can’t comprehend, or he’s been completely overtaken by the spells that the Apothecary has burned deep, deep into his mind, ready to be re-activated with words so easily spoken. This, Steve knows, is what hell is like. This, he knows too, is the furthest thing from what his friend deserves.

It breaks his heart, and his body, to take all these blows against his shield: he can’t stand to hear Bucky’s exertion, his grunts growing more angry and desperate, as Rumlow laughs from the side-lines about how he can’t even kill _one small rabbit_.

 _You were never a rabbit_ , Bucky had told him, just nights ago, honest and brazen with the intensity of their words and bodies shared – _never_.

Steve holds his shield up high, to counter a would-be helm-splitter from Bucky, shouting with the effort of it, given the ferocity of the attempted assault: instead of withdrawing to try again, Bucky aims a steel-tipped kick for Steve’s gut, just below where his breastplate ends.

He stumbles, caught off-guard, as Bucky punches him square in the face, the sword hilt in his hand making the blow much, much harder than if it had been an empty fist. Steve lands square on his back in the mud, the air pushed from his body in one hard impact. He doesn’t have time to recover before Bucky’s trying to strike down at him with his sword once more, the tip of his sword aiming squarely for his throat, as he’s seen him do with humanoid monsters countless times before beheading them.

Steve takes advantage of his brand new super-human strength and speed to raise his shield quickly: the sword glances off it, sparks flying. While Bucky is distracted, Steve kicks at his legs from where he lays on the ground, and Bucky stumbles in the dirt, falling down and on top of Steve, his sword sliding from his one-handed grip.

Bucky practically _growls_ with rage, lifting himself up with one hand, and looking Steve in the eye for half a second: there’s nothing, in those yellow cat’s eyes, that Steve could even optimistically call _recognition_. Unable to hold himself up on his hand _and_ continue hurting Steve, he sits up on his knees, reels back, and punches Steve directly in the face with silver stud-tipped knuckles. Steve brings his hands up to try and wrestle Bucky’s hand, but he’s always been a better fighter than Steve, better at practised, nuanced swordplay and scrapping alike, with all the years of bitter experience.

“Bucky,” Steve chokes, tasting blood. “Bucky – stop-”

Bucky doesn’t even have words left, anymore, to reply.

“That’s it,” Rumlow says, from a safe distance, “Grind him down. He’s nothing,” – and it’s not clear whether he’s talking about Steve, or Bucky.

“We’re not nothing,” Steve says, grabbing Buck’s fist successfully at last, “We’re not kids he can hurt,”

Bucky tries to wrench his now-bloodied, gloved fist from Steve’s hands, as they shake with effort.  
“We’re not no-one,” He says, “And you’re not an animal, Bucky,”

Bucky’s seething breaths, drawing in and out between gritted teeth, continue, as he looks wildly into Steve’s eyes, maddened and sickly with a need to inflict violence that he doesn’t understand. He only breaks eye contact when they both notice something strange.

Bucky’s left hand, tipped with claw-like metal, made of harsh, uncompromising chainmail though it is . . . Is reaching, gently, for Steve’s face. It takes hold of his jaw, blood dripping onto it as it goes, and just holds him. Bucky watches, astounded, completely dumbfounded as the hand, seemingly on its own, strokes the side of Steve’s head; affectionately strokes a couple of loose, longer wild hairs from Steve’s face.

When Bucky refocuses on Steve’s eyes, they’re defiant, but still welling with tears. His face is red, and stubborn, and – and _beautiful_ , even covered in blood and blossoming bruises – _no, no, not ‘even’, that’s – that’s how Steve is – that’s how Bucky knows him – will know him, forever, and ever, and they can’t take that away – no, not again – not ever –_

“There we go,” Steve is saying, quietly, as Bucky feels his own face, contorted in misery, slowly relax into an expression of sadness at his own actions. All anger seeps from him, and into the cursed dirt beneath them, as he listens to Steve say what he needs to hear, as the realisation of what he’s done dawns on him:  
“. . . It’s okay, Bucky – I’m still with you,” He says, “I’m with you til the end,”

He regains control of his arm – _or, did he ever lose it? Perhaps it was just that Rumlow, and everyone who came before him, had control of the rest of him_ – and still chooses to hold Steve’s face, watching his own tears drip down onto it. Steve smiles, and _gods_ , does he look proud. He’s never seen anyone so proud of him; never known that pride in anyone, or anything.

Well – perhaps in Steve, himself. He’s never felt love like he does, when he looks at Steve. He’ll never let him go, ever again.

“. . . How _disappointing_ ,” Rumlow’s voice says, cutting though Bucky’s revelations of truths that, in all honesty, he really knew all along. “But then again – what else, to expect from _you_ ,”

Bucky helps Steve up, from the ground, and takes up his sword again: Steve stands, stalwart, at his side, shield in hand again, as if nothing had changed at all. They’ll always find each other, again. Like they were made for this.

“. . . You – you failed,” Bucky says, gathering himself, willing the hoarseness from his exhausted and emotional voice, “Imagine what the King will think when he founds out I beat you twice,” Bucky taunts, confident to do so now that Steve is at his side, once more.  
“Suppose he won’t have to think on it for too long. We’re coming for him next,” Steve threatens. Bucky shoots him a look, to his side – Steve nods, and Bucky feels wildly proud of him, passionately protective and supportive. It’s what he’s always wanted – _what so many people want, around here, with infinite reason_ – but for Bucky, a debt much more personal, that Steve wants to help him pay. Yet another one.

“You think you can beat me?” Rumlow says, and draws his steel sword, finally seemingly about to do his own dirty work. That unhinged look is back in his eye, as he looks directly at Bucky, like a wild animal challenged. But Bucky was never an animal, or a beast.

He’s a witcher.

“I know we can,” Bucky says with certainty.

Rumlow smirks.  
“Too bad you won’t find out,” He says – and, without further ado, he whistles.

Those same sounds Steve thought he could hear earlier erupt from all around them – before their eyes, sprinting on all-fours from various alleyways surrounding the town square, five huge, lumbering ghouls appear. They advance on the two of them, as Rumlow laughs, again believing that he has the upper hand.

The ghouls circle, and Steve places himself tactically at Bucky’s back, forming a united front, as they are surrounded. Both of them can see the eyes of the ghouls: some of them have one yellow eye, some black eyes, some a queasy mix of both. It’s clear, without clarification, that they are Bucky’s fellow prisoners, yet again; that they were all experimented on, prior to their deaths, failing the Trial of the Grasses with horrific results. And then turned, irrevocably, into inhuman, unfeeling ghouls.

“Too bad they all had to be resurrected, just so I could find you,” Rumlow says, from where he leans casually against the well. “But – then again. This was their home too. Only right, that you all got see it one last time,”

It’s true: these were all once young boys, taken from this town or ones near it, and transformed into mindless, grotesque beasts, in a way that can’t be remedied or righted. It’s a truth forcibly confronted when the ghouls screech, and hiss, and bay for Steve and Bucky’s flesh and blood. Ghouls don’t have any humanity left – Bucky knows even he, himself, likely has more – in them, it’s all been replaced by a non-stop, insatiable desire for flesh.

He can’t let them get to Steve.

_He can’t let them-_

One leaps for him, and he’s ready: he slashes at the face of a boy – a _man_ he once knew, _I’m so sorry Jim,_ cutting his head from his body in one fell swoop, as the others descend on the two of them. He hears Steve’s crossbow go off, and a creature scream in agony, but he can’t afford to look – can’t take his eyes off the striking talons of the beasts, as they vie for his blood, to rip him apart – _both of them_. Human flesh, he knows, is more desirable to them than a witcher’s. Steve, for all his enhancement, is still human – _gods, is he still human –_

Then Steve’s not at his back, anymore: he whips around, afraid he’s gone, when he hears the sound of Steve’s shield hit by a steel sword – the same sound he caused just moments ago, recreated for him, like some twisted stage production. Rumlow has engaged with Steve while he was distracted, trying to cut at him, to rend his flesh, and Steve – _he doesn’t know Rumlow’s moves like he knows Bucky’s, hasn’t travelled with him, doesn’t know how brutal he is, he can’t match up – not Steve, not the gentle artist, not the smaller man made as strong as his own will and determination-_

But perhaps – _perhaps_ , he doesn’t have to be brutal. Bucky spares just a second, between parrying blows from ghouls and slashing their limbs clean off, to watch Steve block his way through the fight. He’s leading Rumlow – Rumlow just can’t _see_ it, thinks he has the upper hand – leading him towards the well, until all he has to do is step aside, and-

Rumlow brings his sword down, trying to slice clean through Steve’s shoulder – but Steve ducks, sweeping Rumlow’s leg – he trips, and falls, stumbling forward and into the wall of the well. With the momentum, and the sheer brutal power of his attempted strike, he’s carried forward until he’s yelling, shocked, as he falls deep, deep into the well. Felled by the runt he once tried to drown.

Steve spares just a moment to look down into the waters below: they’re much, much further down than when he was a child, left here to die. They’re probably full of ash, and poison, with the blighting of the land by the sorceresses brought here by the Bitter March to cover up their evil work. They’re probably toxic, now, killing anyone submerged like he was in a much shorter time.

Steve turns, eyes wide and seeking action: he sees Bucky standing there, and smiles for an impossibly long second. It feels as if it will last forever, as he lights up the grey scene with a golden glow, even bloodied and bruised, that could warm Bucky from now until eternity, so long as he can remember it – _he will, now, he always will_ -

Bucky misses the claw that’s flying at his face: it tears into his skin, causing him to shout as it rips, blood flying. He can hear Steve yelling, as pain blossoms across his whole face and neck – _it just missed his eye, this time –_ but he’s not put off, he was just distracted, and Steve can help him, now, Steve can help him kill the ones that are left-

Steve watches, breathtaken, as Bucky, bleeding from his face, fights like he never has before. He's a berserker, taking on the ghouls three at a time with Steve's help, but not responding to what Steve is saying anymore, lost in the action, or perhaps some unpleasant memory brought about by this particular injury. 

_His eyes. They w_ _ere on fire,_ Bucky recalls, as he butchers the creatures. _He could see through the whole operation_ , his mind tells him, memories lighting up like over-gassed lanterns, like fireflies dancing and dying as they tear across his thoughts, _he could see the sharp tools – he could feel his flesh torn, like it is right now, but the flesh of his – no, his eyes – gods, he’ll never see again – not without the burning, not without the urge to pull them out, not with seeing the Apothecary and his scalpels and the potions that burn like they’re going to dissolve right through to his brain, finally ending it, finally letting him have peace, but no, they’ll never do that, they’ll never let him-_

“Bucky!”

 _He fights, and fights, and fights, until he can’t –_ he won’t make that mistake again. Blood in his almost-unseeing eyes, he cuts at each and every limb he can see, entering a kind of fugue state, not really there anymore, berserk in his need to – to what? To protect? Himself, from further hurt? To protect Steve? Or others? – _please, not my eyes – Stevie said once that my eyes were nice – he was soft but he liked them – please, not my eyes – just leave my eyes –_

“Bucky, _stop_!”

But he won’t, he can’t stop. He sees the visage of a giant, brown wolf, and hears friendly voices and a falcon cry, but there’s blood in his eyes, and he’s scared of seeing in the same way as he’s scared he won’t ever see again, and _gods, please, let me live, let me die, just let me be out of here, I won’t see anything but these stone bricks ever again and if I do it’ll kill me in itself-_

“Bucky,”

Someone waves a hand in front of his face.

“Go to sleep,”

He pauses, looking around him: there are dead ghouls everywhere, and a giant wolf. He sees the face of a friend, and the face of the man he loves. And then, silently, he obliges. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming back!! The next chapter will be an epilogue, of sorts, so this is the last 'official' chapter as such!! 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: restraints, implied nsfw (not explicit), aftermath of violence/trauma, discussion of wounds/dressings, brief mention of eating behaviours

_Present_

Bucky doesn’t think he’s awake. Maybe he is dreaming.

He thinks he is in a forest. He doesn’t know when, but not now. He thinks he knows his name, his full name, but he knows he doesn’t identify with it anymore, if he ever did.

He thinks he is collecting rabbits from a trap, unfortunately dead, but fortunately able to feed him and his family – and Steve, there’s enough so he can spare some for Steve’s family – he thinks that today has been a good day, he’s even considering trying to hunt a grouse or two to sell at market-

He thinks he sees the Bitter March way too late. He thinks he sees them ride into the village, taking hold of it like the tentacles of a great sea-monster, and everyone alive in the town is well within its grip by the time he’s finished his work and thinks to look up.

He thinks he will be too late to stop them from hurting his family – his father, his mother, his sister – and Steve-

He’s right.

He’s not awake.

And then he is.

When he finally realises he’s awake, and opens his eyes, it’s not much lighter, for a few seconds, than it was in the desolate space behind his eyelids. He awakens to a familiar, sinister sight: there are stone bricks above him, dark grey, oppressive, and he imagines that he can hear dripping but he cannot smell damp.

He can smell chemicals, though.

 _Disinfectant_ – he’d never heard that word, until the operation that truly set him free – made it so no one but him could control whether his left arm moved, or not – but the _smell_ of disinfection, well . . . That one preceded that by a long, long time. All he knew of it before was that it stung, and it stank, so often a portent of death.

There’s a low-level stinging pain in his face. He recalls being concerned, about his eyes, but the information they’re delivering to him is depressingly accurate. _Of course_ he is back in that laboratory. _Of course_ he is back in that castle. Why did he think he could escape? Of course they would find him – of course they would get to him, and to Stevie, of course they’d succeed in taking him away and killing Steve for good this time-

He goes to move and is unsurprised to find that he can’t move his arms. It’s standard, for him, but _gods_ has it been a long time. The scars had even started to fade, in recent years, from his right wrist. The only thing is that this time, they’ve changed things up, slightly: not the iron restraints of the past, but steadfast leather, padded with sheep’s wool. An odd choice, but if they reckoned he had escaped before, perhaps they are trying something new, this time.

He turns his head, even though it aggravates the stinging in his face, and notes that something is stuck there: some kind of dressing, diagonal across his face, from his forehead across his nose and cheek; he can feel some on his neck, too.

He ignores it easily, when he turns his head to his left, and sees something very strange indeed: there is a huge figure there of a great beast. He blinks, eyes focussing and adjusting to the light, and finally he can see clearly. As he focusses, he sees a giant, brown wolf: it is sleeping, sighing great heaving breaths through a shining black nose, as it remains calm and still where it is curled up on the floor. It is not a normal wolf, by any stretch of the imagination: limbs too long, facial features too humanoid, and its brown hair has patches of grey like an ageing man.

No – Bucky knows, from experience, that it is a sleeping werewolf.

His brow furrows, his mind unable to piece together what’s happening, at first; he thinks wildly, for a moment, that perhaps the Apothecary has a new pet – _an actual wolf, in lieu of the wolf he let slip from between his fingers_ – but dismisses that out of hand. A werewolf can be hard to control: it can reason, and negotiate, and it has the strength and power to be able to back of those faculties up. At least, on a full moon, it does.

It wasn’t a full moon, last night. Not that he’s aware of when _last night_ actually was.

He stares for a couple of minutes, unbroken, at the sleeping breast; he’s battled them, before, when they’ve been endangering lives; he’s euthanised the ones that have asked for it, unwilling to seek help or magical intervention to treat their life-long condition. And he has negotiated with a couple more, to provide protection, and direct them in the way of a witch who can help limit their curse somewhat.

He counts one as an ally, although he has never seen him transformed as he is right now. Not until today.

He isn’t in the King’s Apothecary’s castle lab. He is in Doctor Banner’s basement lab.

He turns his head to his right, when he’s sure the werewolf isn’t about to stir – not that he doesn’t trust Banner, but sometimes, unusual circumstances can trigger even more unusual responses in those for whom lycanthropy is a problem – and surveys the view.

His heart flutters, in his chest, when he sees Steve. He’s slumped forward in his chair, leaning against a small desk that he’s pulled right up to the slab Bucky lays on. He’s still got a quill precariously balanced between his thumb, forefinger and middle finger where he’s been drawing in ink, and his unshaven face rests on his large biceps. Bucky notes that, just like when they first met, he has managed to get a drop of ink on his nose with his inattention, as he fell asleep while at work. His other hand, Bucky realises how, is on the slab beside him, arm lying adjacent and in the slightest of contact with Bucky’s body.

Bucky notices, with a small intake of breath, that Steve is wearing one of his shirts: one of the dark blue ones, with the neckline that dips shamelessly low. Bucky wonders for a moment why Steve would do that – from the looks of things, it’s a shirt Bucky hasn’t washed recently, with the odd fleck of blood adorning the arms where Bucky can see them. He realises, in time, that it must still smell of him. His heart breaks, slightly, as he analyses all he can see of Steve’s sacred face, pressed against his freckled arms: his brow is lightly furrowed, as if in concentration. If his dreams are an abstraction of his current situation, he must be very worried, indeed. Bucky hopes not for him, although the alternative – that something is indeed wrong with Steve – is worse.

Especially when Bucky can’t fully remember how he got here, or why he’s here.

Bucky shifts, rolling onto his side as much as he can with his limited movement, and says lowly:  
“Steve?”

Steve doesn’t move. Bucky waits a few more seconds, just lost in watching Steve’s deep, long breaths, as he continues to sleep. He wonders what time it is, and for a moment, considers leaving him to his slumber – but selfishly, he has to know that he’s okay, and now. He _has_ to be okay.

Concentrating, and with a slight gesture with his right hand, he casts the _aard_ sign as lightly as he can: the wild, messy thick hair that hangs into Steve’s face blows back, slightly, and even in his sleep Bucky can see him startle. His frown deepens, and he stirs, licking his lips, and screwing up his eyes. He huffs, and finally opens his eyes, immediately searching for Bucky’s face.

When he sees Bucky looking at him, expectantly, his eyes widen.

“. . . Bucky?” He asks, voice gravelly from sleep, with an anxious tone that Bucky doesn’t like the sound of. “-that you?”

Bucky swallows, liking the sound of that even less.

“It’s – _me_ , Steve,” He says hoarsely. Steve’s face just about breaks in two with bittersweet relief, with this apparent revelation: he pushes his desk haphazardly to one side, and stands from his chair, typically clumsy as his casual movements so often are at the moment, since the procedure made his body so gangly and oversized, compared to how it used to be. Luckily, in the focus that comes with fighting, the clumsiness subsides, leaving only the brash lionheart that Bucky has always known Steve is.

In one movement, he’s out of his seat and cupping the sides of Bucky’s face, careful to avoid the dressings there. Bucky rests his head back, and Steve presses his forehead to Bucky’s, torn between screwing his eyes shut and trying to keep Bucky completely in his vision at all times.  
“I – I was-” He starts – but shakes his head, for a moment, and does what he knows he should have done right away, no explanation required: he kisses Bucky on the lips, fervent and desperate, his apprehensiveness melting away, as Bucky kisses back. When they part, for just a second, Bucky can’t help but chuckle despite the strange situation, a bubble of relieved laughter escaping from deep in his chest. He’s just so glad to see Steve – and to not be back at court.

“It’s me,” He confirms again, though it’s unnecessary, just for Steve’s benefit. Steve’s hands stroke his hair, just looking up and down his face, drinking in Bucky’s affectionate look like he’s afraid he’ll lose it. _Not if I have anything to say about it_ , Bucky thinks. But he feels that saying so would spoil the moment.

Finally, Steve tears his eyes from Bucky, and wipes his face on the back of his arm with a great sniff. He goes for Bucky’s restraints: Bucky sits up on his elbows, as much as he can, as he watches him unbuckle them. As he works, he tells Bucky in an apologetic tone, “. . . Sorry – the others thought you – after what happened, they wanted this, because they weren’t sure which, uh . . . Which _you_ would come back to us,” He says, though he sounds strained.  
“You wanted to take the chance?” Bucky asks, with a raised eyebrow.  
“I said you promised to stay with me,” Steve explains, moving onto the other restraint. “So you will. You came back before. You could do it again,” He says, resolute.

“. . . I did,” Bucky says, casting his mind back. He remembers a grey fog, and fighting his way to get through it. He remembers watching as his possessed right hand smashed at Steve’s face, while all he wanted to do was stroke it; hold him, and tell him he was sorry. His left hand was the only part of him to follow his own orders, it seemed. Steve doesn’t look injured, anymore, at least; his face has healed. Bucky wonders if that’s because of the procedure he underwent decreasing his healing time, or if it’s been much, much longer than he thinks.

“What happened to my face?” He asks, rubbing his right wrist with his cool left hand. Because the restraints used on him were soft and padded, there isn’t much irritation – but because of his past injuries from less comfortable bindings, the skin there is easily damaged and scarred, now.

“The ghouls,” Steve says, eyeing Bucky’s face and wincing in sympathy when Bucky goes to touch the dressing. He doesn’t flinch – just feeling along the length of the cut, where it extends from his forehead across his face to his neck. “. . . One gouged your face,” He explains, and pauses, before continuing: “Something about it made you – made you upset. Triggered something in you. I’ve never seen you like that,” Steve confesses. “Could be that you’d had your mind fucked with, just before – but as soon as you got hit near your eye, you couldn’t understand me anymore,” He says.

Bucky swings his legs over the side of the slab, and takes Steve’s hand in his, as he looks up at him: wearing Bucky’s shirt, as he is, Bucky can see most of his torso exposed by the deep neckline. He looks almost completely uninjured, barring a couple of very faded bruises here and there, having been protected by his armour. When Bucky gets to his face, he looks into his eyes for any sign of a lie, when he asks:  
“Did I hurt you?”  
“No,” Comes Steve’s reply, adamant. Bucky searches him for a hint of a half-truth or edited story, and finds none. He hopes that the procedure didn’t make Steve a better liar.  
“. . . I’m sorry all the same,” Bucky says.  
“You were hurt bad,” Steve tells him. “Not your face, your-” Steve indicates his temple, with his free hand, and Bucky can see the worry in every one of his movements. “. . . Can’t imagine what it would be like to be controlled like that,”  
“I scared you,” Bucky says, reading between the lines. “I’m sorry,” He says again, and he feels like he can’t say it enough. The last thing on earth that he’d want is for Steve to be subjected to the worst of what he did, under the Empire’s control.

Steve looks down, and shakes his head.

“. . . No. You could never,” He promises. Bucky wants to say something in defiance, but Steve kisses him again, and this time, Bucky can hold him around his waist, hands meeting at the dip at the base of his spine, holding him close between his legs where they hang off the side of the slab.

“You’re braver than most, then,” Bucky says, a hint of humour in his voice, though the statement is completely true, between kisses. “But I’ve always known that,”

“Always?” Steve asks, and pulls away slightly. He rests his arms on Bucky’s shoulders, crossing his hands behind his neck, and looks down at his scarred face. Bucky nods.  
“. . . I remember, now,” He confesses. “I remember it all. What happened, when we were young. I wasn’t – fast enough, to warn you all. Wasn’t strong enough to fight back,” He says, shaking his head.  
“You were just a child, Bucky,” Steve reminds him. “We both were,”  
“Not anymore. And he could have used me to get to you,” Bucky points out, referring to his former handler, still feeling badly about what happened.  
“He didn’t. We beat him. He’s gone forever,” Steve points out.

Bucky kisses him, again, just wanting the reassurance; he pulls him in for a hug, holding him close, and feeling him breathe. Steve buries his face in the side of Bucky’s neck, taking a deep breath and inhaling in the scent of Bucky, however unwashed he is, because he’s _his_ , and he remembers everything – _they both do_. They belong to each other. Destiny has brought them back together, at last, after decades.

Things have balanced out, at last.

Finally, Steve pulls away, and they look for a moment more into one another’s eyes; Steve strokes a few strands of Bucky’s hair behind his ear, carefully avoiding the piercings, there, the tiny runes etched into them catching the low light of the lamps that light the basement. Over Bucky’s shoulder, he catches sight of the werewolf that sleeps soundly on the far-side of the lab, despite their conversation.

“. . . Did you know, about Banner?” Steve asks, raising one eyebrow to Bucky for a moment. Bucky smirks.  
“Yeah. Knew Nat helped him with his condition – he can transform voluntarily, now, usually – it’s nothing to do with the moon anymore,” He explains, and Steve nods, looking at Banner with awe, though he must have seen a lot of him while Bucky wasn’t conscious. Bucky knows full well that Steve’s never met a werewolf, before. This is an atypical case to start with.

“I knew before he told me any of that, though – since I first met him. We didn’t trust each other at all. Almost fought him then and there. Only came here to sell him parts,” Bucky recounts.  
“He thought you were with the Bitter March,” Steve surmises, given the fact that Bucky is a witcher, and was wearing armour clearly smithed across the border in the Imperial City. It’s an assumption commonly made, by those looking for a fight, and any reason to hate one of Bucky’s kind. Bucky nods.  
“And I noticed he didn’t want silver coins to touch his skin. Gotta admit, not the best basis for a working relationship,” He says sardonically. Steve smiles.  
“If you don’t consider him a _friend_ now, you should,” Steve notes. “Banner brought Sam to the village to back us up. They killed Rumlow’s men, and came to help right away. Sam rode on his back, if you can believe it,”  
“Sam was there?” Bucky asks, surprised.  
“He was the one that put you to sleep, when all the ghouls were dead and you still couldn’t stop swinging,” Steve recounts softly. Realisation dawns on Bucky’s face – _axii_. Of course – it’s just that no one has managed to use it on him before and succeeded. No one has had the skill, or the strength of willpower, to succeed over his own. Rumlow couldn’t use _axii_ on him, having to resort to the Apothecary’s potions and the sorceresses’ incantations to trigger obedience curses deep within his brain.

No – only Sam has been able to succeed in controlling him with _axii_ , to put him to sleep, apparently. Perhaps because he is the best witcher Bucky has ever encountered, or perhaps because deep down, Bucky was willing to let him succeed, as he trusted him. Perhaps, a mix of both.

He concedes that it was for his own good – for _everyone’s_ good, most likely. He hates to think what he could have done, in a dissociative state like that, after such a traumatic day.

“That was two days ago,” Steve mentions. “The ride back here took up one of those. We were starting to think Sam was _too_ good. You haven’t woken up at all,” Steve says, trying to keep his voice light, but Bucky can hear the anxiety in his words.  
“I’m awake now,” Bucky says superfluously. “. . . And I stink,”

Steve laughs, nods, agreeing with the point.  
“Nat said you can bathe upstairs, if you want,” Steve says, “Don’t know how she knew to come here, but she was waiting when we arrived. Helped with your face,” Steve explains.  
“She always knows,” Bucky says, shaking his head with a smile of mild disbelief. He doesn’t mind her seeming omniscience when it comes to him, of course – none of them do. Clearly, she’s got her eye on them, given that she’s performed powerful magic on most of them: she’s probably interested to see how her spells are holding up. That, or she genuinely likes them. It can be a little hard to tell, sometimes. But either way, she’s done more than they can ever repay her for, and she’ll go on to do more in all likelihood, Bucky’s sure.

“Can I wash it?” Bucky asks. Steve casts his mind back, for a moment, before nodding.  
“Yeah. Just gotta apply the ointment and re-dress afterwards. She showed me how,” Steve says.  
“No offence to her – I’d rather _you_ applied ointment to me than her,” Bucky tells him with a grin. Steve raises one eyebrow.  
“I guess that depends on where you’re applying it, huh,” Steve responds back in kind, not one to back down, including from open flirtation.  
“That’s true,” Bucky concedes, and presses a kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth. “I’m sure we could find something to rub on you, too, round here – he’s got a lot of stock,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve blushes beet red. “You know – if your muscles are achin’ from falling asleep at your desk. Or whatever else ails you,” He says, in a sultry tone, with a little humour clear to Steve.  
“Had a good ol’ look at me, huh,” Steve responds.  
“Yeah. Hard not to, in that shirt of mine. I guess I understand why you’re always staring, now,” Bucky admits.

Steve catches his lips, catching him off guard; he rises to the challenge, deepening the embrace, until Bucky is humming, satisfied, while Steve’s hands massage his aching shoulders. Apparently, sleeping on a slab isn’t good for your muscles, either. He feels tight all over, Steve notes, as his hands travel down Bucky’s chest, massaging the muscles there, as Bucky sighs and makes all sorts of relieved, slightly desperate vocalisations. His hands, in turn, dip inside Steve’s shirt, accessing his skin through the deep neckline, and stroking his sides in encouragement. Steve hums in approval, and continues to kiss Bucky, just feeling that he’s there in every way that he can.

In the corner of the room, the sleeping werewolf snuffles slightly – they pause, for a second, Steve looking over at him in case he wakes. But he settles, again. Steve breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Come on,” He whispers in Bucky’s ear. “Let’s get you loosened up,”

They leave to bathe together, leaving the sleeping figure of Doctor Banner alone in the warm lamplight, as Steve’s drawings of Bucky asleep, and scarred, and _beautiful_ , sit lovingly half-finished and unattended.

* * *

Later on, the two of them emerge to a rather civilised sight in the small courtyard at the back of Banner’s shop: Natasha is sitting at an oak bench, drinking tea and reading from one of Banner’s tomes, while Sam grills freshly-caught fish over an open flame.

“Steve. Bucky,” She greets, glancing up for a second from her reading, before looking back down again. She anticipates the way Sam turns, distracted immediately, and abandons his cooking for a moment.  
“Bucky – you’re awake!” He says, surprised, as he studies him, and Steve, in turn. He pauses. “You’re both looking, uh-”  
“Refreshed,” Natasha supplies, and sips her drink, without looking up. Sam shrugs, and nods.  
“Thank you. We got – cleaned up,” Bucky says, side-eyeing Steve, as he tries his best not to blush.

Sam clears his throat, and moves on swiftly.  
“So how’s the head?” Sam asks Bucky, moving back to his cooking, but keeping an eye on Bucky. He knows that _axii_ can sometimes leave a small _aftertaste_ – a headache, in some folk, especially those who were subjected to commands they truly didn’t want to do.

Steve, however, doesn’t know he means this, and hides a minor choking incident behind a feigned coughing fit. Natasha eyes him with an immature little smirk.  
“No pain,” Bucky confirms, and grins at Steve’s misunderstanding.

It’s not a surprise that his head doesn’t hurt, given Sam’s skill. And after all – Sam had acted in his best interests. Thinking irrationally as he was at the time the sign was cast, however, he couldn’t have known that. Somewhere deep down, perhaps.  
“Good. Sit – I’ve caught lunch,” He tells them, and they do as he says. “And Steve – you must be starving,” He comments, given that Steve is so different from the boy he’d saved decades ago from the jaws of death. “A lot more of you to feed. And he hasn’t eaten the whole time,” Sam informs Bucky.  
“Oh really?” Bucky says, with a chastising look at Steve.  
“And did _you_ eat when Nat was performing the procedure on me?” Steve counters accusatorially.  
“He didn’t,” Sam notes helpfully.

Steve makes a gesture as if to say, _there you go._

“Can we settle that they’re both fools?” Nat says, eyeing them over her teacup.  
“Sure can,” Sam replies, before either of them have a chance to comment. Steve scoffs, and Bucky just looks at him fondly, shrugging off the criticism. If he’s going to be criticised for caring too deeply, loving too fiercely, well . . . There are worse faults, to have. Especially for a witcher, who everyone in the general population, and even in academic and magical circles, assumes cannot love at all. 

“You’ve re-dressed your face,” Natasha comments, looking thoughtfully at Bucky’s dressing.  
“Steve did it,” He says.  
“You would have made an excellent doctor,” She comments, with a smile at Steve.  
“Used to get in a lot of scrapes,” Steve supplies humbly.  
“He still does,” Bucky mutters.  
“My ma taught me,” Steve says. Where their hands sit below the table, Bucky’s takes Steve’s, and squeezes.  
“She taught you well,” Nat comments.  
“She did,” Steve murmurs, looking into the fire where Sam is cooking. Bucky nods, bowing his head.

At that moment, Banner stumbles from the back door of his shop: he’s got a shirt haphazardly slung about his shoulders, sleeves too long when not rolled-up, and he’s buttoning it clumsily. He blinks owlishly in the light of day, and nods to them. Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever seen him not wearing his lab coat, before now.

“Excuse me,” He says. “Am I late for lunch?”  
“No,” Sam says lightly. None of them comment on his obviously post-transformation state. It would seem almost impolite, Steve thinks, to do so, even though he’s never met Banner as a man before.  
“Steve Rogers,” Steve says, offering Banner his hand across the table, as soon as he sits down.  
“I remember,” Banner says, but takes his hand all the same. “You know who I am,” He comments, leaving unsaid, _and what I am_. Steve nods, with a smile.  
“Thanks – for coming to help us,”  
“It was nothing,” Banner says, waving away the praise with an awkward smile.  
“It was, once he got going,” Sam says, plating up the fish, alongside what looks like fresh-baked bread. Steve wonders if he or if Natasha made it, while he was sleeping, and waiting at Bucky’s side.  
“A little hard to stop, once I’ve started. Two gods-damned days transformed,” Banner says, shaking his head.  
“You know you have to practice, to get better,” Nat tells him, with a raised eyebrow. Banner rolls his eyes.  
“Yeah, yeah – but who has the time?” He asks sardonically. She smirks, and concedes that it might be a _little_ hard for a practising doctor to get out and embrace his werewolf side, unseen, in a large town like this.

Sam serves the food: it looks delicious, and Bucky feels his stomach complain just looking at it, in a way he’s been ignoring ever since he woke up. He’s been able to turn off his own feelings of hunger, and thirst, since their experiments, at will; they were never beneficial for him, during his torture, or his work. But he allows himself to indulge in them, for once: Steve watches as he eats quickly, clearly ravenous, eating in a way that he’s never seen him do before.

Well – except for when they were kids, and Bucky’s ma would tell him off for being such a pig, and ask where his table manners were, pointing out how good Steve was being. He smiles softly at the memory, and wonders if Bucky has those memories, now; when they’ll come back to him, if not.

It doesn't escape his notice, how Bucky doesn't look up, doesn't check if he's being watched, persisting in eating in front of the others only by pretending they're not looking. But it's progress, as far as Steve can tell, that he's eating in front of them at all. 

As he eats, he listens to the others discuss where they will go next, and what they will do; plans for the future, and the implications of their various victories, two days prior. Sam and Banner – with the help of Sam’s impeccable fighting skills, and Banner’s transformation – were able to slaughter Rumlow’s best men, a sizeable portion of the Bitter March set aside specifically to capture them. Steve supposes they didn’t count on one of their charges being a werewolf who can transform at will, and underestimated Sam’s witcher abilities, having so often heard him referred to as a _babysitter_ , rather than a _saviour_ , and one hell of a witcher in his own right. It’s a mistake Steve would never make, and one that cost those men their lives.

And Steve, and Bucky – well, they despatched the de facto leader of the Bitter March, the great spectre of Rumlow, an undead witcher, almost a ghoul or a spirit himself, drowned in a well and left to rot. But . . . He, himself, was left to die down there, once.

But he didn’t.

“. . . We should go back,” Steve says. Everyone looks at him. “To Lynbrook. We have to make sure Rumlow’s dead,”  
“We made sure. He’s gone,” Sam says.  
“How do you know?” Bucky asks. Sam looks at Banner, who looks back with a grim expression.  
“You’d left – Steve had taken you away, on the back of your horse, by the time I hauled his body out. It was rotten already. Whatever spark of life was in there, it was gone when he hit that cursed water. He was lifeless by the time I burned him,” Sam says, eyes haunted by such a dark, twisted version of his daring rescue of Steve when he was just a child.

Steve licks his lips. He sets his food down, and frowns down at it, as Bucky watches him with interest and concern.

“. . . Still – don’t you think-” He pauses, trying to phrase what he’s saying in a way that explains it well enough. He’s never been a wordsmith, but a lot of things have changed about him, of late; perhaps this could be one, too.  
“It’s where we’re from. Bucky, and I,” He begins, “And it’s . . . Cursed. The ground is scorched and black. All the houses are gone. There’s nothing there but – but _death_ ,” He explains, and sighs. “Don’t you think . . . It's worth more, than that?” He asks.

“What are you saying?” Sam asks.  
“I’m saying – I don’t know . . . Natasha, do you think – you could _un-curse_ it?” He asks.

All eyes are on her, as she eyes Steve thoughtfully, pulling apart some bread, as she considers it.  
“Memory spell?” She asks. He nods. “Probably some other shit. Make sure nothing grows there,” She points out.  
“I don’t know,” Steve says.  
“. . . I do,” She admits. “It was – before you . . . Before what happened to you, happened,” She recalls. “I had to go with the Bitter March on some of their excursions. Not to find boys for the experiments, but the standard,” She says, the brutality of it so lightly brushed upon with her simple words, but everyone at that table knows the atrocities she was forced to be a part of, just like Bucky was. “I know what kinds of spells they place upon a town, when they want no one to return, and to get rid of any strategic value. To destabilise,” She says.  
“Can you reverse them?” Steve presses. She sighs.  
“I – wouldn’t be able to do it, right away. It would take time,” She says, and he nods eagerly. “But perhaps in – seven months, or so. Things would be able to grow. The curse could be lifted, “  
“It’d be liveable,” Sam says, picking up on what Steve is getting at.  
“Right. I think . . . It would be good, to have somewhere where we could go. Somewhere other people affected by the Bitter March could go, too, if they have nothing left,”  
“A sanctuary,” Banner says. “It’s not too far from here. I could offer them medicine,” He adds.  
“Right!” Steve says, enthusiastically. He looks to his side, to Bucky, who’s watching him, rapt, “When the curse is gone – I want there to be something good, when it’s through,”

As Bucky watches him speak, passionate and full of life, brimming with the need to help others, to use his power and help his friends manifest things that he’s otherwise been so powerless to achieve, he can’t believe he could have missed out on this. He cannot believe that he could have missed out on Steve, grown and confident and stubborn as all hell, and _his_. He thinks he’ll lose sleep, over the idea that he could have, if he’d not taken a chance on Steve’s proposition at that tavern so long ago. But maybe he can reason with himself, that destiny wouldn’t have let that happen, or at least wouldn’t have let it go on forever – Steve is his destiny, and Bucky is Steve’s. Perhaps it was always meant to be like this. Perhaps it always will be.

“. . . We’d have to do something about the root of the problem. The Empire. The King,” Bucky says.  
“Fuck the King,” Natasha mutters.  
“That – but also – Bucky, there’s only – what, the four of us? Plus you, Doctor Banner, if you’re not too busy with the refugees,” Sam points out.  
“And Barton. If he’s still in one piece and willing to chip in,” Natasha adds glibly.  
“That’s all we need,” Steve pipes up, again, backing Bucky up. “If we have somewhere to call home – for all of us – we can build a resistance. I’ve spent too many years in dying towns, unable to fight back against the kidnappings, the murders, and gods know what else – the whole Bitter March. We can help all we want, but if he’s still out there – he can get to us,”

 _Get to Bucky,_ is the subtext, as he looks Bucky in the eye for the last part – he knows that, with Rumlow gone, the number of people who would be able to get Bucky to act against his own will has dwindled significantly. But the King and his Apothecary, and the Court Sorceresses that were privy and key to his torture and coercion, are still out there – so that number isn’t yet _zero_. He’s resisted, in the past – just days ago, he was able to overcome it, not a slave to it, anymore – but if for even a _second_ he’s not under his own control, Steve will set the world on fire to make it stop.

But he’d rather just kill the King, and destroy his Empire. It’s a many-headed hydra, and won’t stop unless it’s heads are all cut off. And so, that’s what he’ll do – what _they’ll_ do, together.

“. . . You don’t have to agree, just now,” Steve says. “But me and Bucky are going to go after him,” He finishes, resolute.  
“If I can help your hometown, it’ll take a year,” Natasha reminds him. “To break the curse, and then to build it up, again. You can start sending people after about seven months, but give me a year, for safety,” She tells them. “Then, after that, well . . . Guess you can say I’m looking to show those court witches how much I’ve grown without them,” She says, and raises her teacup, agreeing to their plan to go after the King.

Steve looks to Sam: he shrugs, as if he isn’t agreeing to do something momentous.  
“This is a stupid and dangerous idea,” He opines, “But he’s got to be stopped. The whole damned Empire does. And I’m willing to bet we’re not the only ones who think so. Just the only ones willing to say it out loud, and organise,” He raises his mug of ale, and agrees: “I’m in,”  
“If you ever need assistance of the medical – or, uh – lupine variety,” Banner says awkwardly, “You can send for me. You’ll know where to find me,”

“What will you do, in the meantime?” Nat asks Steve, looking between him and Bucky.

Steve turns to Bucky, eyebrows raised, expecting an answer: he still looks to him, like he did on that very first hunt, taking his leave and following him wherever he says they need to go; falling in beside him, step for step, heartbeat for heartbeat, no matter how large or small, or how old or young they are. It makes Bucky’s heart leap in his chest, and he knows what it must have been like for Steve, when he was smaller, to constantly have his heart race in Bucky’s presence, for Bucky to hear. It’s not an unpleasant feeling – just strange, and exciting to think that it’s something he will experience a lot more in the future. Steve can hear his heart, and knows it as his own.

“. . . We’ll keep doing what we’re doing. Plus we can gather information on the King’s movements. What his plans are. Vulnerabilities – I know he has them, I just can’t remember what they are,” Bucky says, with levity.  
“Maybe I can draw up a bestiary, too – for everyone’s benefit,” Steve says. “Already drawn a lot of, um – beasts,” He says, avoiding looking at Banner as he does so, in case he thinks he means _him_. While technically he is one, of course he doesn’t mean it as an insult.  
“I’ll organise Golden Falcon company. Maybe I can find some folks who want to help us,” Sam says.  
“And I’ll get to work on Lynbrook,” Nat agrees.

Steve raises his ale, and Bucky raises his, too, with a smile growing more confident.

“We’ll reconvene there, a year from today,” Steve plans. “Then we’ll set off to kill the bastard,”  
“Cut off all the heads, once and for all,” Bucky vows.

They touch their drinks together, and drink deeply. Casually, Bucky slings his left arm around Steve’s neck, as he’s done so often in the past, but in a way that never fails to make Steve’s heart jump and batter against his ribcage as if it’s trying to break free. Bucky hears it, and smiles to himself. Yet again, it would seem that nothing, and everything, has changed.

“Before then, you’ve gotta take care of that wound,” Natasha says, pointing at Bucky’s face and neck. “Or it’s going to scar,”  
“I don’t know,” Bucky says lightly, with a cheeky smirk that Steve finds he likes _very_ much on Bucky. “Got a lot of scars. People tend to take the witchers with scarred faces a little more seriously. What do you think, Steve?”  
“I think you look great either way. That what you want to hear?” Steve says, raising an eyebrow. “’Cause it’s true,” He adds.  
“You flatter me, Stevie,” Bucky says, the pet-name slipping out again easily, now that he has so many memories of calling him that name when they were younger.  
“Get a room,” Sam says to them, before engaging Nat and Banner in conversation about how he can best get in contact with them if he needs magical or medical assistance for any potential refugees who could take up residence in Lynbrook, down the line.

“Seriously, though,” Bucky presses Steve, more quietly; Steve turns his head, close to him, with Bucky’s arm still slung over his neck.  
“Seriously. You’ll look good, whatever,” Steve insists. “Always have, always will,”

Bucky pauses, studying Steve’s face; his expression softens, when he finds fierce conviction, there.  
“You too, Steve. Especially when you make that face – and that one,” He adds, when Steve makes a defiant expression, when he goes to say that he _wasn’t_ _even making a face_.

Steve flushes, and kisses Bucky gently on the lips – a chaste little thing, compared to what they got up to earlier – but no less loving, and no less earnest.  
“I think we can spare some coin on dressings for your face, if you want them,” Steve says, “We can send the rest to Nat, for the village,” He points out. Bucky nods.  
“It’ll be . . . Good, to go back home, and have it be home again,” He says.

But they both know that they don’t need a place, however nice, and however useful to others, to feel at home – not them. They know, now, that they will feel home, wherever they are.

As long as they’re together.

They’ll saddle up, the next day, after sleeping side-by-side in a spare bed, bodies entwined and peaceful, resting their twin memories and reconciling them with their newfound shared lives. They’ll spend some coin on an axe for Steve, and some new leather armour for Bucky, knowing that he needs to be set aside from the usual armour of the Bitter March once and for all, now.

They’ll set out, one horse between them, ready to hunt more monsters, take more contracts and solve more problems; right more wrongs, fight off more of the Bitter March, and help rebuild the place where their parents – and each other – taught them that they should _always_ stand up.

And nothing – not ghouls, not illness, not torture, not magic nor potions – can stop them from doing that. Not as long as they have each other, until the end of it all.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my twitter: @luckycl0ve  
> my art tumblr: jaybrogers.tumblr.com
> 
> Art credit: me!


	19. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the final chapter!! Nothing bad here, I sincerely promise!! 
> 
> Warnings: just. Like. the longest sex scene in the fic. I know there was only REALLY one other, but this is more spicy than that one and more explicit. Thanks!!

_One year in the future –_

“I’m starting to think we shouldn’t have stayed for breakfast,”

Bucky grins, looking to his right, where Steve is already looking at him: they’re riding as fast as they can, already late for their arranged rendezvous at the newly rebuilt and renovated Lynbrook. They’ve had this arranged for a year, after all – well, not _all_ of it, but most of it. The celebrations they intend to attend today, in specific, have been planned for a couple of months.

“They wanted us to!” Bucky replies, “I find it hard to say no when a client wants to eat with me after I’ve helped them out - these days, at least,” He confesses. It’s a weakness Steve is well aware of by now: both of their appetites are large, though they can both survive on very little food. Regardless of that, when the older married couple who had been terrorised by a Shrieker, not too far from Lynbrook, had insisted on them staying the night in their spare room and feeding them a cooked breakfast, they’d both been warn-down enough from the hunt that they’d agreed without much of a fight.

But breakfast turned to brunch, turned to a flagon of ale and a discussion of whether they’d consider trading their grain with the people of Lynbrook and, well – yes, they’re going to be late, rather embarrassingly.

“Nat’s going to be mad,” Bucky notes.  
“Nat?!” Steve says, “Sam’s the one who’s been planning the whole thing,”  
“That’s true,” Bucky calls, as they leap over a fallen log, approaching from the woods to the North of the town. “Nat will just be glad to have Liho back,”

Steve’s borrowed Natasha’s horse for a couple of months, now, ever since they last visited the now much-improved town. She’s taken up residence there, somehow managing via some spell or other to move her cottage wholesale from its usual remote location to within the town’s new walls. After she did that, she figured that she didn’t need her horse as much as the two of them did. After all – they can hardly share the horse Bucky originally bought for them, a white filly he’d affectionately termed Alpine. They don’t want the poor thing to die of exhaustion, after all.

But even with the horses’ best efforts, as they approach the newly constructed, sizeable town walls, they are fully aware that they are late: the sun has passed its peak in the sky, and it’s certainly the afternoon. They were supposed to arrive around midday.

They slow themselves, approaching the iron gates, waiting for the expectant cry:  
“Who goes there?”

Steve rolls his eyes, as Bucky watches him with a smirk. He turns to the watchman, atop the wall, obscured by the brightness of day in his position far above them:  
“A witcher, and his partner,” He calls amusedly – _everyone_ here knows them.  
“It’s him! – It’s _them_!” The watchman says excitedly to his comrades, and the gate is immediately raised, leading them into the town without a single question.

Waiting just inside the door, as predicted, is Sam: he has his arms folded, leaning against the wall; when he sees them, he asks, “And what time do you call this?”  
“Sorry, sorry – got caught up with a hunt,” Bucky says, and it’s at least _half_ true.  
“I can see that. You think you’re in any fit state right now?” Sam asks, eyeing them both, as they dismount. He notes that Steve manages not to fall, as he does so, this time – he’s really grown into his new body, it seems, over the last year.  
“You don’t think we can show up like this?” Steve asks, brushing down his cloak, before quickly removing it to reveal the armour underneath.  
“What, to your own union?” Sam asks, as if he’s completely out of his mind.

Bucky looks at Steve, and ponders the question: his golden hair is wild about his face, having not been cut for a few months. He usually likes to keep it fairly short, despite being so vocal in his admiration for Bucky’s long, flowing hair.

Steve smooths his hand through his hair, bushing it back, and looking around as the town prepares for what’s obviously a much bigger affair than either of them really had in mind, when they agreed to it, in the first place. Bucky eyes Steve’s strong hands, as he brushes over his face, making sure there’s no dirt on it. He smiles affectionately, at Steve’s checking, not wanting to have charcoal, or ink, or – as is more frequently the case nowadays – _monster_ _blood_ on his face. Especially not today.

Seeing him tall, and strong, and courageous, fresh from a successful contract, still wearing his armour and slightly bedraggled from a quick and furious ride – would it really be _so bad_ to have their union with Steve looking like this? After all, he’s exactly as he was, on the day they agreed to it.

Bucky doesn’t really remember who asked who. Steve insists he asked, but Bucky disputes that, to wind him up. Truthfully, it doesn’t matter, because those years ago when Bucky promised to be with Steve until the end, he _meant it_. This is just a formality, really.

Bucky nearly jumps out of his skin when Natasha, from beside him, says:  
“Relax, Wilson – I can get this one cleaned up and ready. You look after Steve. We can put it off an hour. They’re allowed to be a little late. It’s their party,”

Sam rolls his eyes, but beckons Steve to him; Steve casts one last look at Bucky, which leads Bucky to take one of his hands and place a quick, chaste kiss on his lips.  
“See you soon,” He promises him. Steve smiles back, before he’s lead away by Sam, and Bucky by Nat.

“Looking forward to it?” She asks him, as she leads him away to her cottage.  
“I’m looking forward to it being over,” He says honestly.  
“What, you haven’t had a chance to get your hands on Steve before?” She teases, deliberately misunderstanding and assuming he’s talking about their union-night.  
“No!” He snaps, looking around, in case anyone heard that – luckily for him, they’re all too busy decorating the place to within an inch of its life.

The town is _gorgeous_ , now. There’s no hint of the scorched earth left behind, that fateful day, when they were children. Every inch of ground has luscious green grass, and sweet flowers climb happily up the side of every brand-new building. There’s a sweet smell, in the air, of freshness: it’s winter, just like when they were here and fighting off Rumlow, but spring will be here soon; with Natasha’s magics, he knows the flowers will bloom all year around, and no one will ever be freezing cold.

This is a safe place, with guarded walls – but ones that will let in those in need.

“Relax. We’ve furnished a house for you. It’s yours to keep – where your folks’ old house was,” She says, light words not betraying, really, how significant it is that she thought to do that for them both.  
“. . . Thank you,” He tells her – he’d elaborate, on that, but as they make their way through the town square, he finally sees the place where the ceremony will take place.

The well, in the centre of the square, has been adored with flowers: white roses, and blue, and red, intertwined in beautiful blooms that are so vibrant, so full of life – so different from everything Bucky remembers about this place, in recent memory. There are seats set out everywhere, and tables set up with ale, and benches with plenty of food. Natasha and Sam, and all the people they’ve given a home to, here, have been hard at work, while they’ve been away hunting monsters, and sending the contract money back here.

“This is-” He swallows, slowing to a stop, for a moment, just to take it all in. She turns back, eyebrows raised, as if she doesn’t know how much this means to him. “. . . No one’s ever – I never thought I would-”

He shakes his head, and rubs at his eyes with his right hand.  
“Stop that. You’ll smudge the charcoal,” She says, only half-joking. “No crying til you actually say the vows,” She tells him. Despite himself, he huffs out a laugh, and clears his throat.

“Just . . . Thank you. For everything,” He says.  
“Thanks for the money. Couldn’t have done it without that,” She highlights, dismissing his clear assertion that he doesn’t deserve this, and that he played no part in it.  
“That’s – probably true,” He says, and she tugs on his sleeve, leading him to her cottage. “I never thought I’d want any of this,” He confesses. “So many people,” He adds.  
“Too many?” She asks.  
“Well . . .”  
“They want to see you, before we go. There’s a lot of them, that want to say thank you. I had a guy who insisted on being the watchman, for today – said you saved his life, years ago. Convinced him to leave the Imperial castle – said you used some kind of mind control, or something,” She tells him, and he casts his mind back – _oh_. The squire, that had been guarding his cell, that night – he’s often wondered what became of that young boy. He’s felt rotten about it for _years_. 

“He was the watchman?” Bucky says, surprised, looking around, though they’re completely out of view of the town wall, by now. “He came here?”  
“Him, and his wife. And kids. Said he’d never have any of it, if it weren’t for you,” Natasha tells Bucky, as they approach the door.  
“. . . Didn’t realise I made an impact,” He said truthfully.  
“Please – not only do you and Steve run around saving people’s lives all day – you look like _that_. Both of you. Some of my finest work,” She teases, with a wink. He can’t help but smile.

“But seriously, though-” She says, opening the door to her now incredibly familiar cottage, “We need to get you washed up and ready for the ceremony. Even my best work needs to be presented well, sometimes,”

Blushing as much as his body permits – which, as usual, is very little – he does as she says, making his way inside, so she can provide him a bath and help him into some more suitable clothes, and sort out his undoubtedly flyaway hair.

He knows she'll take care of his armour, in the meantime - from the older belts and buckles, to the newer parts designed this side of the border, to Steve's old business card in one of the belt pockets, which has been there since he first met him that fateful day in that alleyway, lovingly preserved there for him to look at whenever he likes. He wonders if Steve knows he still has it, and looks at it from time to time, especially when they have to be apart for any length of time. It's ephemera - a relic of who Steve was, who they _both_ were years ago - but he treasures it nonetheless, never forgetting the odds they beat to get here. 

He trusts her completely, with his possessions and with his body, as always.

* * *

The occasion, as expected, is a well-attended affair: they’re both sure no one but the first couple of rows can truly hear, as they quickly exchange vows, trying not to get too caught up in the ceremony and the emotion of it all, in case they bore the good people of this town to death, or lose their reputation as fearsome fighters.

Steve, it’s clear to see, just tries to ignore that anyone but Bucky – and Sam, by his side, and Nat, who officiates – is even there. Bucky finds it a little harder to ignore the staring eyes, the familiar feeling of being under a _spotlight_ of sorts keeping him on edge, as if he’s performing. But when Steve squeezes his hands, and nods, with an expression that says _trust me_ , he’s able to ignore them all just as well as Steve can. With confidence and certainty, they wrap the ribbon around their hands, and they’re bound together forever.

There's thunderous applause and cheering, when it’s all over, and they finally kiss, new iron rings in place on their fingers – Steve’s on his left hand, and Bucky’s on his right. Then there’s a band’s worth of bards, and a _hell_ of a lot of ale, and a feast the likes of which Steve and Bucky haven’t seen on the road in a long time. Banner is there, to make sure no one gets _too_ unwell from all the revelry, and to offer his sincere if slightly awkward congratulations.

At one stage, Bucky sneaks off to talk to Banner, and Steve finds himself chatting with Sam about their plans to head forth, the day after next: they plan to cross the border as soon as they can and, with Sam the only one that’s been there who still has a clear, intact memory of the geography, he’s the best person to plan with. They do so, despite the partying going on all around them, until it’s late.

Bucky returns, after a short while: as he gets a drink, from the impromptu bar set up outside in the unseasonable warmth, and he casts his gaze over to Steve. He wonders, as he sees him sitting at a bench, studying a map with a look of earnest concentration, if this is what Steve felt like, that first time he decided to approach him in that tavern. He’d been plotting his next movements, and hadn’t really given Steve’s offer to visit him at his studio a second thought: if he’s honest, he just thought Steve was after something a little more _obvious_ than drawing him, when he’d made that offer in that back alley. He hadn’t had time for it, then.

If only he’d known then what he knows now, he would have gone to his studio and done anything Steve wanted right there on the spot. He’d probably have posed nude for him, if he really asked for it. Since they’ve been out on the road, he’s certainly done that, once or twice, when asked. Steve’s good at drawing all aspects of him, he knows, by now.

Shaking himself, he takes a mug of ale for himself and one for Steve, and carries them over to the bench where Steve studies the map. Beside him, Sam is drinking, chatting happily with someone or other beside him about how long they’ve been waiting for this celebration.

“You’re still here,” Bucky points out, echoing what Steve had said to him that day in the tavern. Steve looks up, slightly surprised, as he sees his partner above him, smiling down with a cheeky expression and a drink for him. He smiles, as he registers Bucky’s words, and from whence they came.  
“Is that a good thing?” He asks, as Bucky sits down across from him.  
“I’ve decided it probably is. Don’t want you to go disappearing on me,” Bucky says, diverging from the script.  
“Not again,” Steve retorts. Bucky shrugs, conceding the point.  
“You two wondering when you can make your escape?” Natasha says, as she sidles up beside Bucky, and sits down beside him. Steve blushes, and takes a big gulp of his drink. She sees right through him, at least.  
“I think we owe you all a few more drinks,” Bucky says.  
“And dancing,” Sam pipes up, turning his attention back to the two of them.  
“Oh – no,” Bucky says, shaking his head adamantly.  
“Not even with me?” Steve asks him, with a raised eyebrow.  
“Hmm . . . Maybe later,” Bucky says, making eye contact with him, although he clearly means something else by _dancing_ in this context.  
“Understood,” Steve says, maintaining eye contact with Bucky as he drinks deeply. Bucky reflects his movement.

Sam clears his throat.  
“Do you two need the key to your place?” He asks. Bucky shakes his head.  
“Banner gave it to me. Needed to put something away there,” He says vaguely, tapping his metal finger against the key which is now attached to the same chain as his wolf’s head amulet, so vitally gifted to him by Sam all those years ago.  
“Sure you did,” Natasha says. “Guess you can escape whenever you want to, then,” She observes.  
“Guess we can,” Steve says – but, as per Bucky’s request, he gestures to the barkeep for some more drinks.  
“Don’t forget to thank everyone, first,” Natasha says, although the two of them have been doing nothing but thanking folks all day – and receiving a _hell_ of a lot of thanks, for saving lives and livelihoods, in return.  
“We won’t,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. Steve watches, as he reaches for bread that was left out on the table to feed guests, and almost casually picks a piece up, taking a bite right there in front of everyone. He keeps going, until he's finished, as they continue talking. No one comments on it. But Steve couldn't be prouder of him.   
“Good," Natasha responds. "Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you were late today. I trust you’ll be awake bright and early in the morning, two days from now, for us to set off,” She says.  
“Of course,” Steve reassures her genuinely.

“In that case,” She says, “I’ll see you tomorrow,”

They watch as she walks over to a woman Bucky recognises – a witch he’d met, long ago, around the same time he’d met Barton, who’d pierced his ears and his septum for him, helping ward him from danger according to the local folklore. The folklore, it turned out, of his own homeland, though he couldn’t recall that at the time.

She’s spoken fondly of Natasha, when he’d mentioned meeting her, at the time; likely because of that, she had decided to attend, today. He figures that, this side of the border, everyone is looking for an excuse to be happy, and make merry, when they go through so much hardship. He’s happy, therefore, that he and Steve can be an excuse for them to celebrate, and come together, like this.

Barton himself, Bucky saw earlier, displaying trick shots for some of the villagers like some kind of side-show: he hadn’t stopped to greet him, pretty sure that he was already too drunk to remember such a meeting, but he’s agreed to help them fight across the border, so he’ll see him when they set off in two days anyway. Or tomorrow, banging on the door of the inn where Banner is staying for a hangover cure. 

For now, he turns to Steve: they’ll have a few more drinks and, finally, as the stars shine down brightly upon the town, and the fires die down to smouldering ashes of the controlled, intended kind, they’ll make their getaway.

-

“You want to carry me across the threshold?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow as they get to the door of their brand-new and furnished home. He knows from Sam’s explanation earlier that it’s enchanted, so that they can have their privacy, and the house can’t be interfered with without their permission while they’re absent. Bucky watches him sidle up to the door, and fold his arms as he leans on the wall beside it.  
“ _You_ could carry _me_ , you know,” Bucky points out.  
“Yeah, but – it’d be like old times,” Steve says, laughter in his voice.

Bucky unlocks the door, and it swings open, revealing a warmly decorated, beautifully furnished cosy house. Still maintaining eye contact with Steve, he snaps his fingers, simultaneously lighting all the candles in the cottage plus the fireplace with the _igni_ sign. Steve snorts.  
“Yeah. Definitely like old times. You, showing off in front of me,” He chuckles, though Bucky always says he never _intended_ to show off, those years ago – he was just _implicitly_ impressive, to Steve, apparently.

Steve’s smile only broadens when, finally, Bucky approaches him, and does as he’s asked. He lifts Steve with both arms, just like he did when Steve hurt his ankle over a year ago, now, and across the threshold. Steve ducks his head, and tucks in his legs, so as not to hit the doorframe on the way in.

The house is made for two people of their stature: although the door is a little shorter, the ceiling is tall enough that they needn’t stoop. There’s a small kitchen area with a table, an area by the fire where they can bathe, and an area behind a screen where their large bed awaits. There’s a back door, too, to a garden where they can sit in repose, if they ever have the time. 

Natasha had also mentioned slyly, to Bucky, that the property has been soundproofed. He had scoffed, at that particular feature.

Bucky approaches the bed, and sets Steve down on it with a grunt.  
“Easy, there. I’m not 90 pounds soaking wet anymore. You’ll hurt your back, witcher,” Steve says, only half-joking. He’s _significantly_ larger than he used to be, with most of it being pure muscle. Bucky likes him any which way, though.

He casts the _aard_ sign at the door, slamming it shut, and bolting it.

“Alone at last,” Steve says, leaning back on his hands on the bed, and waiting for Bucky to approach him. Instead, Bucky just stares, drinking in the sight of Steve: his eyes, pupils blown wide and dark with the low light; his hair, mussed from a day of dancing and drinking; his big hands, where they splay on the silky sheets beneath him. Bucky licks his lips, looking pleased with himself.

“You want something, Buck?” Steve asks innocently, though Bucky’s face is already answer enough. Bucky approaches him in a couple of steps, and before Steve can make any more glib comments, he’s straddling Steve’s lap, knees up on the bed, and cupping Steve’s face in his hands.  
“The usual,” Bucky says, and of course he means, _you, Steve_.  
“Don’t talk too loud. The gods will know we were at it before we had our union ceremony. Then they’ll _really_ start to throw shit at us,” Steve says sarcastically. Bucky snorts, and kisses him silly; his hands work at the lacing on Steve’s shirt, undoing it with abandon, mind preoccupied at the same time with the way Steve is trying to remove his own clothes.

Steve pulls at Bucky’s shirt, pulling it over his head, and throws it away quickly; he takes the opportunity to remove his own shirt, too, before his hands go to Bucky’s pants, working them open, as Bucky finally parts from him.  
“If they don’t like it, fuck ’em. That’s their problem,” Bucky says, with a cheeky grin. Usually, Bucky is quite an earnest, respectful person, when it comes to various belief systems – Steve knows it’s the excitement and the ale that make his lips so loose. He, himself, is feeling the same way, able to hold his drink the same way as Bucky, nowadays, but not wholly unaffected either. Maybe that’s why he can hear himself being so mouthy, without his own say-so. Maybe that’s why he’s already got his hands at the waistband of Bucky’s undergarments, where they’re spilling out of his undone trousers.

“You want me to touch you?” He asks, all thoughts of theology stowed as he eyes Bucky’s pants, and his darkened eyes, already noting his obvious arousal.  
“Been waiting all day for you to,” Bucky says, giving him the go ahead.  
“Don’t think our guests would have appreciated seeing this,” Steve says and, before Bucky can make another smart comment, his hand enters Bucky’s pants, and he takes a sharp breath.

Steve smiles mischievously: he knows what Bucky likes, knows the way to move his hands to get Bucky sweating and jerking around because he simply can’t sit still. It only takes a few very particular strokes of his practised hands to get Bucky to that point, with a day's worth of build-up and alcohol at his back.   
“Gods, _Steve_ -”  
“Thought you said _fuck ’em_?” Steve says with a smirk.  
“Never mind what I said,” Bucky retorts breathlessly, voice slightly strangled. “Just – _please_ – keep doing that,”

Steve likes that Bucky tells him what he likes: the first time they’d ever had any kind of sexual contact, it’d been obviously hard for him to say anything at all, really; it’d been emotionally fraught, and explorative, and it had been hard for either of them to really express what they wanted or liked in words, aside from to consent, of course. But since then, they’ve learned – sometimes the hard way – how to say what they like, and what they don’t.

And what Bucky likes is Steve's hands working him over, like they are right now.

Unable to stand it, anymore, he pushes Steve’s shoulder until he falls back onto the bed with a soft grunt: Bucky gets off him, reluctantly separating and losing contact with him, to shuck his pants and undergarments off along with his steel-capped boots. When he turns back to Steve, undressed, he realises:  
“Think you’re overdressed, Stevie,”  
“Oh yeah?” Steve says – not his smartest reply, simply taking in Bucky’s scarred and beautiful body, covered in hundreds upon hundreds of freckles, and silver-white hairs that he’s stroked hundreds of times over in the past. Clearly, he doesn’t have many thoughts other than getting his hands on him again, as he sits up on his elbows, admiring the view and unconsciously licking his lips, shifting his hips restlessly.

Bucky sees this and, fully aware that he’s _peacocking_ for Steve’s benefit, slowly, _painstakingly_ unties his hair, running his own hands through it, tipping his head back and exposing his throat with a satisfied sigh. His own hands thread through his hair one more time and, head still tipped back, brush down his chest slowly, until they rest against his abdomen, just shy of where Steve was stroking him moments ago, teasing him with the display. 

He opens his eyes, finally, though they’re half-lidded, and lets his hair fall messily about his face as he tips his head forward a little to look at Steve. He bets Steve is torn between reaching for his pencils, and reaching for _him_ , right now. He looks mad with desire, and he can't sit still. Bucky's been building confidence in his body like this for months, now, showing off for Steve like this sometimes in a way that would have made him mortified a couple of years back.   
“Yeah,” Bucky replies at length, and finally gets to work unlacing Steve’s pants. Steve lets his head dip back, relaxing back on the bed for a moment, as Bucky undoes the fastenings, and pulls his trousers and undergarments down – but not completely off.

He lowers himself to his knees, at the end of the bed, and smooths his hands up and down the leather trousers Steve wore specially for today, working at the tight muscles of his broad thighs. Steve raises his head, and catches the glint in Bucky’s eye that spells _trouble_. Bucky grasps the waistband of Steve’s trousers, and teases him, pulling at them slightly.  
“Can I . . . ?” He says, licking his lips, and looking down to where he’s exposed Steve. Steve nods, before words can have a chance to kick in – finally, he says:  
“Please,”

Bucky hitches his clothes a bit lower, pulling them and Steve’s boots off completely, before he dives in and gets started with a single-minded determination that makes Steve blush and gasp hotly. Steve’s head tips back, again, and his breath catches in his throat when Bucky gets his mouth on him. Almost immediately, his hips start to jerk, as Bucky puts his tongue and lips to work, tasting Steve and humming his approval in a way he knows drives Steve wild.  
“You okay, Steve?” He says, briefly stopping to do so, but starting to suck on him again before he replies – which, Steve thinks hazily, is kind of foul play, as far as he’s concerned. He couldn’t care less, at that moment, though.

“God – _yeah_ , Buck-” He encourages, and in his slightly tipsy, aroused state, thinks it’s a good idea to place his hand in Bucky’s hair, brushing it, and trying not to grab it and thrust. It’s just not good manners, of course. He wouldn’t dream of it, except now he’s thought of it, and he has to let go of Bucky’s hair quickly and bunch his hands in the sheets as a form of impulse control. “Fuck – so good, you’re so – fuck-” He curses, closing his eyes, and just trying to savour the moment instead of pressing for _more_ -

Then he feels Bucky’s right hand slip between his thighs: it travels upwards along one of them, stroking the soft, curly hairs that are there, before slipping between his legs. He gathers up the wetness he finds there, both from his own mouth and from Steve, already showing signs that he’s ready to blow, and starts to gently but insistently press in a way that makes Steve’s hips jerk involuntarily upwards.  
“Fuck-!” He yelps, and Bucky lets him thrust harder into his mouth, meeting him gratefully with more of that insistent suction that drives him wild, controlling his own breathing carefully, incredibly aroused himself but focussed completely on Steve at that moment. Steve’s breaths are getting more frantic, now, and he's clearly getting closer to the edge, each breath laced with a hint of a moan. He hitches his legs slightly wider, inviting Bucky to go _harder_ , give him _more_ , and do it _now_.

Bucky hums, the vibrations crossing from his lips straight to Steve’s sensitive skin: Steve finally opens his eyes, and lifts his head up, only to see Bucky looking right back at him, cat’s-eyes making contact with him, hair strewn about his face as he works tirelessly to make Steve lose his fucking mind.

Finally, Bucky reaches up Steve’s torso with his left hand and, though it’s slightly cold and a little harsh – not in a way Steve doesn’t like, though, he knows from experience – he uses his metal fingers to grasp at one of Steve’s pecs, squeezing at one of his nipples, until he shouts, losing control, and coming, pressing himself up into Bucky’s waiting mouth, as he continues to suck him through the whole thing, lapping up everything Steve gives him.

“ _Bucky_ -!” Is the only word he can seem to say, cried desperately at first, then on moaning breaths, then contentedly in whispers, as he strokes Bucky’s hair out of his face, still heaving for breath. Bucky presses a kiss to the inside of each of Steve’s thighs, and then one to his stomach.  
“You’re so good to me. Gods,” Steve says, flushed and fucked-out, with a lazy, happy expression.  
“Now _you’re_ sayin’ it,” Bucky highlights, raising an eyebrow, and wiping his face. He climbs so he’s on top of Steve, straddling his torso, just above his now too-sensitive pelvis.  
“You’re a bad influence, what can I say,” Steve says dryly.  
“Oh yeah? . . . How bad?” Bucky asks in a sultry voice, a challenge on his face. Steve grins up at him sloppily, and he reaches up to tuck Bucky’s hair behind his ear, where it falls about his face, as he holds himself above Steve.

His hand travels down his chest; as it continues down, it glances off his abdominal muscles, stopping at the level of his hips to grip one steadily. His other hand slips behind Bucky’s neck, pulling his head gently but insistently down so that he can whisper in his ear:  
“However bad you want, darling,” He says, and the hand on Bucky’s hip slides forward, resuming stroking Bucky as he was earlier, while Bucky’s breath hitches audibly in his ear. “You want this?” He asks. Bucky nods, but pauses, before engaging his brain and correcting himself:  
“I want you to, uh-” He curses, quietly. “Hang on-”

He lifts his head, Steve’s hands moving off him for a second, as he sits back and up on his knees, still straddling Steve. He reaches for the cabinet beside the bed: from the draw, he takes a small glass bottle of something Banner promised him he would _never_ tell _anyone_ he got from him. Steve watches as he uncorks it, and sniffs it. It smells faintly of rosemary.

“. . . Smells good,” Steve teases. Bucky fixes him with a withering look.  
“You have no idea,” He counters. “Hands,”

Steve holds them out obediently, but knows this is probably the last bit of control that Bucky wants to exert, for now. It’s his turn to hand himself completely over, as he only truly likes to when he’s with Steve. But when he does it, he enjoys it immensely, Steve knows.

Steve spreads the oil on his fingers, for Bucky to see: Bucky shuffles forward, slightly, making it much easier for Steve to see what he wants him to do.  
“You sure?” Steve asks, though clearly he's eager to do what Bucky wants.  
“I’m ready. Trust me,” Bucky tells him, determinedly, and discards the oil on the bedside table.  
“If you don’t want it anymore, you can, uh – put the candles out,” Steve tells him. Bucky nods his head, and leans down again, pressing a soft kiss to Steve’s temple, before sitting up again and finding his balance on his knees, weight on his shins.

He feels Steve’s slick fingers approach from behind, trailing along his ass, just introducing the cool, tingling oil to his skin, so it’s not too much of a shock. He feels one of Steve’s fingers nudge at him, stroking and exploring for just a moment, before starting to slowly, _painfully_ slowly, push into him. He grits his teeth, palms flat and pushing hard against Steve’s chest, but tries to relax, thinking of the times he’s done this for himself, and all the lessons he’s learned. _It’s only gonna hurt for a moment, at first – you’ve been through so, so much worse._

“That’s good, Buck – so good,” Steve whispers, watching his face carefully, as he nods for him to go ahead. 

It starts to feel good pretty quickly. Steve’s got the rhythm and the finger movements down, and when Bucky opens his eyes, he can see Steve is looking up at him with this dopey, almost awed expression. He gulps in deep breaths of air; hisses, when Steve feels he’s ready for another finger, and starts to press it inside.  
“Fuck-” He curses, and Steve goes to pull back – but he whines, “No – _please_ , Steve – keep going, don’t stop-” He can’t blame Steve, though – he must look a _mess_ , right now. He can feel himself sweating, and he’s making so many noises right now that he can’t believe he thought soundproofing the cottage was going overboard. He never usually sounds like this, always muffling his own rare noises with his hands or with pillows, and helping Steve to do the same. He’s stoic by nature, after all that’s happened to him – but now he has free reign, it’s like a dam has been breached – and Steve’s dark, aroused eyes tell him he can’t get enough of it, either.

If anyone heard him right now – Steve’s big fingers inside him, adding a third and curving them as he moans and thrusts for it – _gods_ , they’d never be able to look at him again, let alone trust him to defend them, to kill a _King-_

“Shh – I’ll take care of you – you know I always will, Buck-”

His thoughts immediately snap back to the here and now, all inklings that he should feel some ill-conceived _shame_ at enjoying this dismissed, when Steve’s other hand resumes its work, slick and tingling with the oil, stroking him. His hips, where he’s been moving them in a smooth, grinding motion, getting the most out of Steve’s fingers inside him, suddenly start to jerk rapidly and without any real rhythm, just seeking that friction.  
“Easy, Buck,” Steve croons, and Bucky can see him almost smiling, but all higher function is probably lost at this point due to the fact that he’s watching Bucky on the edge, about to completely lose it because of his own hands, riding them like his life depends on it. 

“Come on, Bucky – show me-” He says, echoing what Bucky told him that very first time they slept together. His fingers start to thrust a little faster, crook a little sharper, Bucky stuck between his strokes and his thrusts – and it’s too much, he can’t take it anymore – his hands are flat on Steve’s chest, but now they’re digging in, _fuck, that’s probably gonna hurt him, the metal fingers are sharp, fuck –_ but he’s out of control, right now, and he’s coming with a shout, hair wild about his face and moving with his whole body as it shakes and gyrates, looking for friction, riding out everything Steve’s giving to him and unable to ask for anything more than that. His desperate and incoherent pleas for _more, fuck, Steve,_ with the occasional _love you_ peppered in finally start to stop after a little while, and he makes a concerted effort to catch his breath, just looking down at where Steve is smiling like a fool.

Carefully, Steve extracts his fingers from Bucky, and he grunts; he runs his hand through his long hair, pushing it back and out of his face, as he sits back on his heels. As he suspected, there are four welts down Steve’s chest, from his left hand scraping it; the right hand has made a pretty good attempt at doing the same. But Steve doesn’t bruise easily, and scars even less.

“. . . Fuck,” Steve says, but it’s a happy one. Bucky nods, breathlessly letting out a peel of laughter, decompressing. He places his right hand against Steve’s chest, and smooths it over the marks the left made just moments earlier.  
“Sorry, beloved,” Bucky says, the pet-name only half a joke.  
“You’re lucky I love you, you know that?” Steve says, but he can’t even pretend to be serious about it. Bucky chuckles, and leans down to kiss that smug little look off Steve’s face.

“Yeah, well. Who else is gonna buy you these kinds of tinctures, for when they want you to f-”  
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve cuts him off, “I’m a lucky guy, I know,” He adds.  
“Not as lucky as I am,” Bucky tells him. “Of all the taverns in all the world – you walked into the one I was at. And now look where we are,”  
“Doubt destiny had _this_ planned for us,” Steve comments, looking down between them.

Bucky looks down, too: he can already see Steve twitching, beneath him, and trying to get comfortable again, without making the fact he’s already ready for _round two_ too obvious.

“Sometimes, I wonder if Natasha was amusing herself, the day she altered you,” Bucky comments dryly, but when he looks up, Steve can see in his face that he’s nowhere near as surprised or put-upon as he’s trying to sound. Steve blushes, and shrugs.  
“What can I say,” He says sheepishly, “I just. Fucking love you,”

Bucky rolls his eyes, at the excuse: in truth, he doesn’t need one. Bucky will stay up with him all night, whenever he wants, however he wants; what Steve wants, he wants, too. He couldn’t complain about it if he tried – not convincingly, and not meaning any of it at all.

“I fucking love you too,” Bucky says, and presses a kiss to Steve’s lips; deepens it, for a few moments, simply stroking the small, red lines he’s made in Steve’s skin. “. . . Maybe you can try some of this ointment for yourself,” Bucky whispers in his ear, making Steve snort.  
“You’ve taught me enough about potions to know anything’s worth a shot,” Steve says coyly, despite the absurdity of that kind of tone given their current situation.

Needless to say, they try it out. And other things, too – after all, they’re only going to have one union ceremony, and tradition states that they should make the night of it count. But, still – when they’re done, completely sated and nakedly dreaming in each other’s arms, the smaller candles reaching the ends of their wicks, they can say that, truly, they’ve earned their rest. They know each other, intimately, and they love each other even more.

They’ll be ready to face anything, together, and do anything for one another. That’s all that really matters, as they both sleep, with pleasant dreams, wrapped up in one another’s protection.

* * *

A day later, after they’ve had a full twenty-four hours to recover and rest, and to see the rest of the town now it’s been renovated – and help with the clean-up effort, after their celebrations, of course – they prepare to head out and cross the border.

They've had some time, over last day, to themselves. For Bucky, this has taken the form of strategising with Sam about their upcoming excursion. For Steve, it's been tirelessly thanking the town's inhabitants and, in private moments, creating art. 

The art he makes is unique. In their garden, behind their cottage, on the same ground where Bucky's parents once lived, is a small memorial stone. It was placed by Sam, before they got there, with both of their permissions. After all - Bucky still blames himself, at least a little, for not getting to the town fast enough to save most folks, including Steve's family and his own, no matter how much Steve tells him not to think that. 

Steve spent yesterday evening carving two small figures from wood, to place alongside the memorial: a wolf, and a rabbit. Two protectors.

Bucky had watched, wordlessly, but not emotionlessly, as Steve had worked. He'd rubbed his shoulders when the work neared its end, thanking him and telling him with honesty how it felt like the right tribute.

Then, together, they had laid the figures beside the stone, the names of their family members etched into it staring up at the stars, as they finally got to say goodbye. 

It's a closure neither if them thought they'd ever get; never knew they needed. But as they'd held each other, under the stars, they knew it was possibly the best gift they could receive from the world at last. 

They have refused a lot of coin, as union favours, over the last day: instead of taking coin as gifts, Steve has, as he’d always planned, given a gift to the town. Where usually he will leave a drawing of Bucky on town noticeboards – or rarely, of the two of them together – he has left, with Doctor Banner, a hand-drawn, half-written bestiary. Constructed under Bucky’s watchful eye, and to his continuous amazement at the quality and the craftsmanship of the illustrations, Steve has documented every single monster he has seen while with Bucky, for ease of identification; their weaknesses, and the best techniques to use against them.

He drops the bestiary off with Doctor Banner, just before they leave. He accepted it with joy and delight, alongside some Shrieker parts from their last hunt, for his various potions, and – well, _ointments_ , and whatever else he makes to sell. When he’s done, on his way to the town gates where he agreed to meet the others, Steve stops at the town noticeboard to post a message:  
_People of Lynbrook – please be advised – should you ever require help identifying a monster outside of the town walls, look no further than Dr. B. Banner’s practice, located at the East side of the town square – ask for the ‘Rogers and Partner Bestiary and Creature Compendium’ (‘the bestiary’, for ease) – he will show it to you._

_Be kind to each other, in our absence. This place was our home once, and you’ve made it so, again. We will forever be in your debt. For you, we will burn the core from the rotten Empire. Your loved ones, and your way of life, will be avenged._

_Signed,  
Steve Rogers – partner to the honourable witcher known as Bucky. _

He meets his companions at the town gates, as promised: as he approaches, he can see Bucky smoothing the mane of Alpine, as Natasha and Barton bicker over something or other, and Sam talks with the town watchman on duty. As he approaches, he sees the softness in Bucky’s face, as he talks quietly to the animal like he might a small child. He doubts anyone else can hear him, but Steve can – he won’t tell anyone, though. It’s something sweet for him, alone, to know.

Bucky’s wearing his new black leather armour: there are elements of dark blue, now, within it, similar to Steve’s own. The contrast with his pale, silvery hair, and his bright yellow cat’s-eyes, makes Steve’s heart leap in his chest.

Up close, Steve can see the remains of the scar, from the ghoul’s claw, where it swung at him last year. It still meanders across his face, from his forehead to the opposite cheek, glancing against his eye, and finishing at his neck. It’s dark red, as it always has been, but a little more faded with time and the occasional treatment from Natasha’s repertoire.

Steve recalls that he offered to dress the wound, every single day, but Bucky would only accept sometimes; he’d treat it himself, sometimes, too. Steve thinks that maybe, he wanted to keep it as a reminder of the way they managed to beat his former handler, and how he broke free of his – and the Empire’s – control and manipulations.

Regardless of time, or scars, one thing remains the same, to Steve – Bucky will never not be striking, to him. He was when he laid eyes on him, in that back-alley years ago, and he is now. Hell – he was, when they were kids, too. A stronger boy, with those beautiful blue eyes, that made Steve feel things he couldn’t understand as a child; those feelings were the beginnings of what he now recognises as love.

Neither of them are anywhere near the same as they were back then, now. But those feelings of love have stayed, and will forever stay, irrevocably the same.

“Witcher,” Steve says by way of greeting.  
“Partner,” Bucky counters, with a jovial smile. Steve can’t believe there was a time where it was hard to get him to smile, in the past; can’t believe that he personally thought Bucky _couldn’t_ smile, for a while.  
“Ready to go?” He asks.  
“It’s been nice. But we belong out there,” Bucky decides.  
“Maybe you do. What if I like it around here?” Steve teases, as he pats the horse beside where Bucky stands. “We just had our union ceremony. And now you want to take me somewhere where it’s illegal for us to be partners. Doesn’t really appeal, does it?” He says, looking at him with a challenging expression.  
“You won’t feel the same, if I go alone,” Bucky tells him confidently, perhaps a little smug, although the reminder about how their relationship isn’t valid across the border smarts a little for them both, the weight of what they’re about to do, and where they’re about to go, feeling a little more real with that realisation. “Wouldn’t feel right, without you by my side, either,” He adds.  
“You got me there,” Steve admits, and casually brushes Bucky’s hair over his shoulder. Bucky leans into the movement, turning to face Steve.  
“I have you everywhere,” Bucky tells him, and although it doesn’t make a lot of sense, somehow they both understand what he means.  
“And always,” Steve agrees, hopelessly in love in a way that he acknowledges but is helpless to do anything about. He wouldn’t care to change a damn thing, anyway.  
“Good. Because you have me, too,” Bucky tells him, and brushes a small kiss against his lips. “Maybe we can change a few laws about unions, while we’re there,” He adds, only-half joking, and kissing Steve again. Steve smiles into it, and for a moment, focusses on only their whispered sweet nothings.

Finally, Bucky pulls away, and addresses the group:  
“Everyone ready to set off?” He asks. He receives a round of nods, in reply: as he surveys the group, he sees Sam, in his brown leather armour and red robe, gold detailing shining in the crisp winter sun; Barton, armoured in chainmail, about a million different kinds of arrows sticking out from a hefty quiver about his back. He sees Natasha, in sensible armour, but still looking utterly flawless in presentation, in case anyone should underestimate her power or her commitment to the daring and downright dangerous quest they’re about to set out on.

And he sees Steve: plate armour in place, sturdy, weighty axe at his side, and shield at his back. He looks celestial, jaw set in determination, but eyes soft with love as he gazes back at Bucky like he hung the moon in the sky. If Bucky hung the moon, then he makes the sun rise. One can’t exist, without the other. Destiny knew that, all along.

“Then I think it’s time we go and kill the King,” He says.

They set out, to well-wishes and cheers from the people of the town, and assurances that they can return whenever they please. They’ll defend their champions of Lynbrook with fierce determination, in days to come, from rumour and from onslaught alike. The champions themselves will defend each other, of course, as they ride across the border, ready to tackle a great evil that no one else has dared to take on.

But together, perhaps they can manage it. With the combined powers of two witchers, an archer, a witch, and a magically enhanced human like Steve – how could they fail? This land belongs to them, the people are their people, and they know the rivers, and the deserts, and the woods, intimately. 

Something tells Bucky, as they ride across the border and into the unknown, that although they’ve suffered – although he himself has suffered hugely, thinking and perhaps occasionally hoping that he wouldn’t make it through to see what the future had in store, for him, at certain points – he thinks that, as it always has been, destiny is on his side.

Destiny, and Steve. Perhaps, that is all he needs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks!! Thanks so much for reading this little passion project of mine, all that remains now is to thank ALL of you for reading, for commenting, and for sharing this with others!! 
> 
> Special thanks to Poe, for reading this the first time round before it was published, and whose many, many words to me about it pushed me to write it and to push myself to create the best story I could. Truly, this fic wouldn't exist without their Strong Encouragement!! 
> 
> You can find me on twitter @luckycl0ve, and on tumblr (mainly art) @ jaybrogers. Thanks again!!

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me @luckycl0ve on twitter and patreon (for my art), and jaybrogers on tumblr (also mainly art)


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